Players may not touch each other: no body contact.
Basketball must be the chastest of games.
They dart and weave;
The big ball bounces off the white-chalked floor
In sure percussion,
The teams comb each other,
The ball is tossed from catch to catch;
Tap, tap, bounce and pass
In abstract patterns.
Try the bottomless basket,
The ball slithers through,
No contact with the rim.
Points gained. No fuss,
No exulting, no kissing,
Just a brisk darting off again.
Dart, dart, bounce and weave.
Now the other basket calls,
Receiving what it first rejects,
Accepts without holding.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem