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My days at school as an 8-year-old were filled with vivid memories. The school, located in a city, had a concrete playground that echoed with the laughter of children. Inside the classroom, our teacher was a beacon of knowledge. She made learning an adventure, using colorful drawings on the chalkboard. Friendships were forged in this environment, as we shared secrets, traded collectibles, and built sandcastles in the sandbox.
In the garden of dreams, where time dissolves,
the nuns float like cotton clouds,
their habits are butterfly wings,
and their voices, whispers of stars.
The desks are paper boats,
sailing on a sea of chalk and laughter,
the books, portals to invisible worlds,
where dragons teach mathematics.
The windows are mirrors of water,
reflecting skies of impossible colors,
and the clocks, magical hourglasses,
where seconds are rose petals.
In the courtyard, the games are dances of wind,
and the laughter, melodies of a keyless piano,
the memories, butterflies trapped in jars,
flying free in the garden of memory.