School Under The Pines
School Under The Pines
Underneath the spring blossoms we ran;
Petals crowning our little heads as we raced each other before lessons began;
The borough stretching out, rice-fields and many a barn;
Our hall of learning at the edge of the azure tarn.
Orphaned we were;
Waited for us at the door of the temple grounds; he did... Grey-haired and smiling... Beloved parent and Sir;
A small room it was, a corner of the old, old shrine;
But tranquil, hallowed under the swaying shades of the pine.
Followed his every movement, glued were our eyes;
His fine calligraphy, penmanship, demeanour... Oh, how we longed to be like him... Wise;
Soothing, calming, a mellifluous tone;
He sheltered us like his very own;
Cheeks ink-smeared, we fell asleep on the porch;
A happy father with fifteen children, he carried us into the dim interior, away from the scorch.
Upon the fluttering, open pages, a small flower or two drifted from the outside;
Our homing instincts to inhale erudition's fragrance never died;
We're like the tiny birds that hopped on his sill;
Always trying to row towards the rim of the rill.
"Thank you," Said he;
"I was never your teacher, you fledglings taught me;
What is compassion? What is fatherhood?
How to do good?
My daughters, sons; my precious ones; you were the beacons, the newly-born stars;
Completed my empty soul as we traipsed through the scarlet eve, the twilight hours."
I am but seven;
My steps and words are uneven;
Laughing, I pick up white florets from a blooming bed;
Making a corona to place it on his head.
"My sweet child, grow wings and fly;
Over the dales and gullies... Up, high;
Scoop diamonds of accomplishment from the skies;
Show them to me before we utter our goodbyes."
"#ThankyouTeacher"