With a lamp
in each eye
he ran the race
so miraculously,
amazing the ones who stood by;
each step fantastically fast
and the torch in his eyes did flame
against the wind, miraculously cold.
The mark seemed too near at times
and at times far
the stretch and strain of his muscles
and his sweat
all seemed to bear
the weight of humanity's
long forgotten rituals.
The veins of the earth feel the pain of an ancient itch
Turned wound, which the racist opens for fun and win
For he who wants to race against time has a clogging space
That mocks his run, with fire and fume.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is a powerful poem Raveendran with drama and determination at its heart. Your final stanza brings the reader abruptly down to earth as the racer is confronted by the reality of nature in all its omniscience. love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥