The Magic of Schoolboy Days

There is magic in the memory,

balmy harmattan spent at the local lake,

afternoon escapades that bled to nights,

starlit skies and games that shaped long hours.

 

Back then, we were an unruly band of brothers,

ditching classes, chasing wild romps,

buzzing with hijinks and teasing dreams,

fueled by audacious, careless things we did.

 

Bouncing in that effervescent magic,

they hid more bus stops than we could count,

somewhere amid the laughter and chaos,

endless afternoons stitched with jokes and smiles.

 

Her laughter danced beside our cheers,

a melody that filled the air,

and suddenly, the friendship’s light

became a flicker, warm and bright.

 

I traced her name

on folded notes,

held silent crushes

deep inside,

the way a boy’s first love unfolds:

awkward, sweet, and full of pride.

 

Years have passed, the world moved on,

but still those memories remain;

of friendships forged and dreams that soared,

of first loves written

in the rain.

 

Even hearts that boldly claim no feeling

find softness springing to life beneath,

a nervous flutter in their soul,

where magic lingers, undefined.

 

And maybe Benjamin was right,

after all,

“there really is magic

in the memory

of schoolboy friendships;

 

it softens the heart,

and even affects the nervous system

of those who have no heart.”

The Pen That Never Runs Dry

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