I see a desk.
It's very old and used.
It helps me learn.
It helps me think.
Out of the corner of my eye a small freckled boy glances up at a screen.
Writing and pondering.
Behind him a class room of distracted children.
I hear them hum and the scribble of pencils.
I smell germ ex.
How long will this torture last?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem