The Sun scorches the sand and the grass
and everything on it including my skin.
The wind is dry.
But I stand there, little Hell on Earth,
where success always carry bodily pain
that lasts until Tuesday.
Knees and thighs red like glazed pork,
so tasty with rice and runny eggs.
My legs bear the scars of hard work
and play at the same time.
I fly and fall sublimely,
and stand up proudly.
My loss is another's victory.
My victory is another's defeat.
But at the end of the day,
the Sun sets and we rest
and cool ourselves with sweat—
—praise the other for doing well
and be brothers and sisters until
our next trip to Hell on Earth.
Then we sleep and we pray
for injury time to be over.