Poetry

---

Mankind is but a football
in a game that's played by fools;
with no effective referee to emphasize the rules;
yet nailed upon a crossbar
is a Man born for the role,
whom foolish men have put to death,
refusing his control.
So, as a consequence, one finds
an anarchistic game,
where death's commonplace affair,
and no-one takes the blame.

Within the crowded stadium
mankind gets kicked around:
his hopes and dreams and high ideals
lie lifeless on the ground.
One commentator claims
there isn't very long to play,
that most of those involved
will be sent off on Final Day.
A starry universe spectates
and wonders at a sport
where one must fill his pen with blood
to write the match report.

---

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE