I refuse to write a fable about the beautiful moments,
so ask the non-living to narrate it for you with sly comments.

If you ask the pale blue walls to tell stories,
they’ll probably gather tiny plans of bunking all the worries.

If you enquire the wooden desks arranged serially,
some carvings shall sing songs frantically.

If you ask the yellow strap which was replaced,
it’ll recite you why the glossy purple string was never truly embraced.

If you ask the canteen doors that never closed,
they’ll brief you about the friendly ingredients that shared the food composed.

If you ask the strong pillars that held the building,
they’ll probably paint on you vivid colours of coding.

If you ask the printers that never consisted enough papers,
they’ll tell you about assignments that contained multiple copied layers.

If you ask the laptops that twirled wickedly,
they’ll lament about the chats circulated mysteriously.

If you ask the lift which often malfunctioned,
it’ll possibly take you for a ride even though not mentioned.

If you ask the balcony which waved all the storms goodbye,
it would list you the latecomers who regularly passed by.

If you ask the dusty switchboard with broken buttons that toggle,
it’ll tell how fingers massaged them until the right one was found with a giggle.

If you ask the marred, crooked projector that had to be constantly adjusted,
it’ll radiate the pale light upon you without being flustered.

If you ask the dejected water filter that held chilled water,
it’ll fill you with excuses which were made to escape the lessons that were bitter.

If you ask the railings of the staircase,
they’ll tell how many dreams had found wings with sheer grace.

If you ask the tea stall with the sugar sprinkled bun,
it’ll tell you why the tea prolonged until the lectures had begun.

If you ask the wind that blew as we walked at the end of the day,
it shall whisper why we secretly longed to stay.

This fable is best narrated by the inanimate things,
all the souls surrounding it had the privilege of new beginnings.

But maybe if you ask the living about all this,
their words would fall shy and the brimming tiny tears would lead them to simply reminisce.