Sylvan Meads Poem by Ravi Panamanna

From the dales of my past
A whispering bourn is heard.
Beyond the din of the world
Waking fields are seen.

And to sylvan meads I doth fly,
My school days ope their wings.
Miles and miles flash before my eyes,
And corporeal scenes embrace my chest.

Sisters of the neighboring houses,
Teachers coming beyond my lane,
Boys living in the distant farm houses
Streamed into one beyond my fence

At par with the flying clouds
It was a voice unto the roots of life.
And our teachers from their inner recesses
Kindled light to meet the darkness of our future.

Those seasons submerged into our veins,
Winds were soft on the wake of our life.
And looking back to those good old days
It was all a treasure lending us a bucolic mind.