The ceiling fans churn through the suffocating heat,
As smoke from the borders creeps into the street.
We’re copying graphs of a world on the brink,
While the taps in the bathroom run yellow and stink.
The syllabus tells us the crisis is near,
But the dust on our uniform collars is here.

The politicians hide in their air-conditioned glass,
While the heatwave invades every square of our class.
They barter our seasons for profit and coal,
And leave us the scrapings of what they just stole.
But ink is a weapon when youth is the flame,
And we’re rewriting futures they branded as tame.

So choke out the hallways with banners and cries,
Let the noise of the courtyard rip open their skies.
They traded our tomorrow for paper and greed,
But we are the roots of a furious seed.
Don’t pack up your anger or quiet the noise,
The climate will break if we don't use our voice.