Boot master, relentless workaholic,
Tatoo junkie and yet supreme architect of
Moves rapturing towards goal.
The precise passes, the hopeful lobs,
The attacking runs, how a man who learnt,
That one hand is more flexible
Than another, learned later on,
That the same is true
For the feet. How we are
All, preferred-limbed soldiers of fortune,
Knowing that we control
How a man nearing 33, is now
Is slowly turning from a Messi into a Messiah,
The hand of god, is nothing compared to
The cool-feet of Lionel,
The favorite son of Argentina,
Asking for, yet another chance at glory.
Another beautiful script, of a gaucho in the pampas.
What sweetness, lie on the toes
Caressing a buckminster soccer ball,
The deft caress of foot to ball,
Foot flirtations sultrier
Than an Argentine tango and the fleeting
Movements of sheer levity,
Like how Jesus walked on water.
How man takes a soccer ball
The size of a human face,
And expresses a tenderness
Yet unforeseen. How thousands
Gather at stadia, to see, a football
Caress a man’s feet, a man with a babyface
A frisky beard, and tattooed ink,
Who holds ad libitum
A myriad of moves, a man with a 10 on his shirt,
Knowing that 25m from goal
He delivers, bending like Messi,
To the back of a net.
How “Gols” are, what Gods are made of,
In South America. How one man
Can take the ordinary, and turn it
Into the extraordinary; a goal from nowhere,
just like how Jesus turned water into wine.
How beautiful that one man
Can transform, the faintest opportunity,
Into a pure miracle. How that eve,
The couple and well wishers, danced
At the wedding celebration in Cana,
Wine springing-out from open casks,
Their feet, as light as, those of Lionel Messi’s.