This site contains merima trako's blog archive as published on huffington post, the world post, merima's personal poetry collection and short prose collection

There is This School

There is This School

There is this school, a large yellow Titanic in the middle of a town. It was a church school once. Now it’s cracked in half. One-half of this school a witness to bold creatures traveling its painted walls, painted with hope, painted with mischief, and a notion that they were meant to do something different.

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There was a bulletin board in this school where our poems were. We had one computer, which we used to type our words on, one by one, slowly, with the dexterity of novices. This board was our book of poems. We didn’t know any better. In this school is where Albert was born. In this school is where we dreamt of going places. We did not have real goals, for our dreams resembled illusions. The world was out there, in the fog, with smudged outlines, so we stumbled, we did not know exactly which streets to take, or which buildings to enter. We stumbled for four years, and in the end, as the fog cleared, we realized we were lost. Other schools, in other worlds, had children who dreamt in clear, bold colors, in shades of opportunities. We imagined in hues of molten lava, hot burning desire to leave the cold hallways and classrooms with desks from previous generations who once had those vitreous dreams, which were never going to be available to us. Our lava was scorching our guts. Some were leaving, some were staying, some had visions, and others only knew that they should go far, far, far. Some cracked, some were broken, some damaged beyond repair.

I am back, staring at the school, at its even more cracked walls, at its unchanged divided facade. I am a visitor now. I am a student. I am a stranger. This place calls to me. I am stuck there. On the board with my poems, with Albert. I am one with the walls that whisper of the illusions we had, fake streets and cities. I moved in a straight line, a line of success and yet, success was always illuminated by the poems that once hung on these walls.

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This school will no longer be. It will be stripped down and painted over with a new color, blue. It will remain a Titanic and have an unyielding presence in this town, in people’s hearts. New generations will have to leave to have their illusions elsewhere. Walls with no history, brand new shiny stables, where we will breed new generations of dreamers who will dream in transparent colors. Hot burning lava hues will be following in the footsteps of our success.

 

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There is this school. It was a church school once. And I was not a student of God.

 

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