by Maria Passwala
Every morning, my books give me a strange glare,
Their sharp piercing looks, I no longer can bear.
Covered in brown covers with stickers that has my name,
They say you study well, to gather all the fame.
Hindi, English, Math, Chemistry and History,
Sometimes I understand, sometimes a mystery.
It is a different type of war, I fail to conquer,
It’s an endless thought on which I no longer ponder.
Chemistry book is full of test tubes and chemicals,
My book on Arithmetic stares me with numbers and decimals.
The notebook on History is filled with wars and death,
There is so much to study, relax, and hang on; I need to catch my breath.
Landscaped Geography book takes me on a world tour,
After several hours of staring at these countries, I take a quick detour.
Our national language stumps me with poems from Shakuntala Devi and Kalidas
I learn them with much struggle to recite them in class.
My books may increase every year,
But there is one that is special just like a souvenir.
That bears the brunt of my varying mood,
And clearly is a favorite; my rough book.
This book has witnessed some great games,
The memory of which always remains.
Have learnt to gather a lot of love from my rough book,
To forgive mistakes of dear friends and sometimes overlook.
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