A soft, warm presence,

The classroom erupts in chaos,
The air thick with the weight of learning,
The leader bursts in,
Slamming onto his bench,
“Sir is coming, Sir is coming.”

His footsteps thunder through the room,
Filling the air with an icy fear,
The hum of study dies,
Silenced into an unnerving stillness.

The student at the front,
Told to bring the rod for punishment,
But instead of the missing stick,
A heavy, merciless cane is shoved into his hands.
Fear spreads across the room,
The windows seem to shrink away in terror.

The student at the back stands frozen,
A question hits like a lash,
The lesson’s main focus,
But his words crumble,
Buried beneath an avalanche of fear.

Some were questioned,
Their hearts shattered in the process,
Others, with no change in expression,
Sat motionless, like statues.

The punishment was doled out,
Three lashes for every one.

But...

Every now and then,
He steps into the classroom with a smile,
A soft, warm presence,
Like honey dripping from a comb,
Filling the room with a calm sweetness.