The lines are drawn,
The jerseys flash in the sun,
A willing runner or not,
Your race has begun.
It’s a long run, they say,
Breaths become heavier than before,
From the struggle of your first cry,
Till you can no more.
So you run your race,
A participant among a billion,
You lead some, you follow some,
To the cheers from the pavilion.
As the needles run their temporal marathon,
Your legs sting and your heart cries,
Your shoes unlace and you fall,
But the stampede is on for the prize.
The hard gravel by the side becomes your home,
As to so many others, you shall discover,
And while the runners still run,
On the sides, more defeatists hover.
What once seemed comfortable,
Is now an overcrowded field,
Suffocated by the smell of dried sweat and painful sobs,
You realise this is the tougher battlefield.
And so, much to the horror of the others,
You pull up your socks and knot your shoelaces,
And jump back onto the track,
Ready to fight and go places.
It’s hard, no doubt,
But when you bite the golden biscuit and hold your trophy,
The stench of sweat is your perfume,
The bloodied scars are your jewellery.
When one race ends,
And so we keep running,
To amass our wins.
Be not a spectator cheering wearily from the stands,
Be not a coward slinking in the crowds,
Be a runner,
Be a winner.