World Cup -26 Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The whistle blows, a shaky sound,
Rules are bent, then spun around.
Referees, with clouded sight,
Judge the game with all their might.

But bias creeps, and skills are weak,
The final score, a whispered peak.
It feels set, the path is clear,
But what's my word? I have no fear.

The ball still rolls, a simple sphere,
In this game, so full of cheer.
And though it stings, a bitter taste,
Revenge will come, no time to waste.

For he who waits, and watches long,
Will find his triumph, sweet and strong.
The last laugh echoes, clear and bright,
When justice found, with all its light.