Potent barely scratches the surface. 

Potential. 

Insects bristle with the futility 

as the scholars march on, trampling glades of knowledge

but water, ever patient, only burbles and sighs and watches 

and only the students question the dimming of the walls to the point of gleaming,

for what is the purpose of words if not as modern shields and swords?

We never did let jousting go. 

Onwards. 

Downwards, perhaps. 

And another day, always.