Wandering through the old campus lane,
Where sunlight fall like whispered rain,
Carving our prints through every little step,
On the muddy trails and unspoken words kept.
The Benches a hundred years old,
Holds our dreams like every other soul,
Who laughed, cried and lived their youth,
Not realising, they ain't on a loop.
One day it comes to an end,
Just like every other trend,
But the memories never fade,
Even if it is millions on trade.
The photographs that we never took,
Of moments too pleasant to look,
And a bag of chips we ate to class,
Holding secrets, time could never pass.
Exams and fears, Hopes and plans,
Sitting in the hall with rusty fans,
Oh, I didn't know it was a pleasure,
And much better than a scroll leisure.
Now time has packed it's final bag,
Leaving only memories to drag,
College ends but never leaves,
It folds itself into our sleeves.
It remains, it truely does,
A gentle homely residue,
Of people we grew into.
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