Today, a thousand faces,
In a classroom not far from here
Wait lifeless in stifling heat
For some promised prize

And at the front a single fan perspires.
To cool them.

And while a thousand
Glassy eyes drift far,
Far from here,
And hear not the distant voice,
Drifting far, far from here

Textbooks lie dim and grey
Untouched, unmarked on desks.
And these mightless armies
Will not learn from them
For books are dull
And they are not
And therefore should not touch.

And today these children
Will not learn, but why
Should they not tomorrow?
If voices can learn to dream
And reality can return to the world
Then, perhaps,
And only then,
Will armies grow and lesser minds
May learn.

But if not, then life will go on,
With no aid for teachers,
No knowledge to be acquired
And no sense to ask for more.

And life will stay a toil
And death a promised prize.

And at the front still a fan perspires:
The only life in this room.