The warrior

He did not dream of a million dollars,
Neither did he dream of instant fame,
Trying to stand with the white collars,
He continued to play the beautiful game.

Dribbling the football like he always did,
For years,it was a gift that he never hid,
Years that he spent under the burning sun,
Bare footed, the football was his only companion.

All those years counted down to that single moment,
The blisters on his foot, his injury prone legs,
Memories of a long struggle called life he buried,
Alongside his demons behind a netted rectangular box.

And so began his waltz, filled with adrenaline,
He was dribbling the ball, again under the burning sun,
Watched by his father, he was a lot more keen,
Trying like he always did, to be his favourite son.

Every single second mattered he was told,
And he ran across the field not wasting any,
But soon something inside him pulled him down,
Done and dusted, his eyes were forced shut.

He died a little later in his father's arms,
The beautiful game was his life and it was over,
His escapade to a beautiful life had done its last harm,
The burning passion in him finally faded away...

Dedicated to D.Venkatesh, Striker, Bangalore Mars, who died on field during a BDFA Division A match. Respect! RIP.