Arrived in hidden satire: lost in thought
sauntered the sibylline corridors with dots-
of mud and grass, to which I passed
the floors traced by students amassed
in a package crew.
Indulged in flavour, I succumbed to the view
of my new life, my new life
buried in sight: the purple loosestrifes
that surrounded the grand school
with a football field, a swimming pool
Where my friends: Ahmad, Haider, Zaidi, Mohammad, Hamza, Sheharyar—
Too many to mention
fought on the pitch like Olympic superstars
despite the ongoing tension
of endless exams,
throughout the O’Level programme.
Now, I sit in my Literature class
usually, finding a way to pass
not with the help of a catalyst, or an enzyme
but in a way that I can sublime
amongst my peers, my shadow, and this very rhyme.
Yet, I still remember my dated vision of Lahore Grammar School
grasping onto my prolific pen
as a machine tool
hoping every now and then
I can revisit the grand school
and perhaps, relive those moments again.