The final whistle blew

And the team rushed to him,

His goal etched in their minds,

All draped in a jubiliation

That shown brighter nowhere else

Than in the smile on his face.

The coach stood aside,

Watching them with pride,

Letting the youngsters celebrate,

Till the boy saw him,

Freed himself from the hugs

And made his way through.

A pat on the head,

Whispered words engulfed in emotion,

Mysteriously audible

Over the din of the crowd,

As the coach lovingly picked up the ball

And gifted it to the striker.

An hour later,

Ceremonies over,

The boy walked away,

Holding the ball close to his heart,

So precious,

A day he will remember forever.

The ball stayed on the mantle for years,

A sacred spot in his room,

Trapping within it an unspoken irony,

The blood of pierced fingers that stitched it,

Dreams of a little girl in a sweatshop,

And a childhood exchanged for a moment of joy.

~ Rahul Misra ~