In the street soccer of existence, we find our play, Some rolled up trousers, uninvited, we make our way. Prepared from home, to pass time with friends we yearn, Chosen or benched, our roles in the game we discern.
Swift substitutions, or benched for a while, Life's twists and turns, like a ball's unpredictable mile. In the field of fate, where rivalries may grow, Yet friendships may blossom, the ebb and flow.
The pleasure of "friending," the joy in every goal, Heightened by "enemying," a part of the soul. Games that start as friends may end as rivals, While some begun as foes, in camaraderie, survival.
As the clock ticks down, and shadows start to fall, The game's intensity, the memory enthralls. But when the final whistle blows, and the cheering fades, Boots are pulled, hands and legs washed, in the quiet shades.
Heightened joys make way for a silent reckoning, In the twilight of the game, a time for reflecting. For bone to bone, we all return the same, In the grand finale, no one's escape from the game.
Yet, the memory we carry, too immaterial to hold, No pockets, palms, or caskets, stories left untold. In the end, we all go home, the game complete, A memory lingering, as life and time discreet.
So, be ready for the final call, the closing scene, When the match concludes, and the grass turns green. No bone finer than another, in the universal scheme, Bone na Bone, in life's grand, transient dream.
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