Amazingly, the ball is flying back to me,
my protruded eyes witness
its dreadful spinning and speed;
and the haughty heart shrinks and realises
a ruinous sequence is to be ensued.
A few moments back…
my high-strung racket stroked
the ball and posted it
to the inaccessible address of the rival.
As over-powered I was
by my pride and contumacy
so was over-confident on my skill
and was over-optimist too to obtain
the last achievement, the game point.
My body, mind and soul were prompt for
the hilarious clapping and warm felicitation
and blissful too in watching
the Samba of day-dream around me.
Suddenly, a pin-drop silence paralyses
the tumultuous environment
and I am landed back from the fantasy to the reality.
My sensation and perception are astonished by
the retaliated ball which is repelled
and addressed to a tough corner of my court.
“Oh God, please save my game,”
a bubble of importunity comes out of my heart —
almost haunted and blocked too,
still tempts me for the last effort.
Tighten my loose grip, raise the racket,
jump over to the ball to reach beneath and blow.
my eyes shut their doors,
maybe, ears also reluctant to hear
the consequence of my last struggle for existence.
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