Soccer Historica: They Built A Medieval French Castle Poem by Alfredo Ivan Alvarez

They built a medieval
French castle out of the area
and a carnival became silent
when the ball was placed
upon the grass.

Roberto Carlos set
a horizon in his leg,
figured the route of the west,
tasked for the
urges of sudden torsion,
grew fangs and
hunger in his bullet,
conjured the sun
plunging down after midday,
produce no smirk,
no grease, no foretaste,
gave steps back,
stood and waited.

Heard the whistle
from the daybreak bird,
ran and shot a ball
-with a sabre left foot-
into attested life.

A ball convoking
one Saturn ring,
curving its pith,
hissing in winds,
parting quotients
and entering back
to break all stringency,
all game set logic,
all probability.

A ball twisting
the world and stadium
-like a gyring planet-
before finishing up
with the galloping
of a thousand horses
in the disturbed net.

When the ball lost
all life and fell inside
deceased upon the grass,
the team of the rooster
had then lost too
too many feathers.

Plucked
they sang to no dawn.