They say it’s free now—to sit beneath the hum of ceiling fans,
to let your name be called in rooms where walls forget your silence.
no more mothers trading sleep to pay your way to books.
But look—some sprawl on desks like this were a motel,
scrolling through reels while verbs slip out the back door.
They eye the front row only when the teacher calls for names,
but never when meaning asks to be made, line by line.
And when red ink bleeds across their papers like quiet bruises,
they ask, "Why not ninety?"—as if knowledge came prepackaged.
Their sentences are scaffolding with no building in sight,
yet they want the skyline, the stars, the applause.
O country that gave them pages without price—
see how they tear the leaves, still asking for more.
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