“Farewell past, happy dreams of days gone by. The roses in my cheeks already are faded.” Verdi, La Traviata.
The entire money in the world could not buy those days we lived, like the sweet taste of chocolate, like the rain of October, like the shadow of a kind tree in the warm afternoon of summers.
Valedictory; a pretty word with an acrid meaning. December, the month of lonesome became the month of farewell for us. The falling leaves of the old tree in that garden are the sign of its crying in the memory of those lost gems in the cold evenings.
The time is flowing like a river towards the caves of loneliness and captivity. The spine of the farewell is piercing our free hearts. Our laughter that was the fascinating sound of ringing bells is going to become the empty sound of pots being thrown by an angry woman. The shine in our eyes spoke about the truthfulness of our innocence and true solace is to die in the unstoppable tears of farewell. The bright blush in our cheeks, evident our beauty is going to fade away in this farewell.
The energy that filled up our bodies, as we entered the classes like we were the bosses; the naughtiness that swirled in the wind with our giggles, the moments of fighting over food, the pranks we played. The trolls, were never-ending.
Those walls are the witnesses of our evil deeds. They recognize our loud laughs, our soft touch. The wind moves with our little secrets, our whispers dispersed in the air. The light remembers our bright smiles and glimmering eyes, the boards have seen the students’ hair going grey in the stress of a test. The doodles on the desks sing the songs of their creators’ creativity.
Now, when it’s time to leave — it feels as if it was a mere dream, a dream that ended too soon, a dream you can never go back to, a dream you can never watch again. Each moment we spent happily, it makes us feel like we were living on a cloud. It was fog, it vanished away and we fell.
Maybe the ruthless, cold-hearted people won’t remember us but the soft grass will smile and tell the flowers “No they cannot be replaced.”
The flowers would reply “No matter how many come after them.”
The Neem tree will open its branches wide “Yes, and no one will have the hearts they had.”
The bee would join in “Yes I will miss them, who can never be replaced.”
We remember, sitting on the bench; feeling the cool breeze while our giggles rang like bells, turning into a song of happiness and everything around us danced in pleasure, savoring the moment because maybe it was their last hearing our innocent laughter.