Storyline: It’s not just who plays and what they play. It’s also about where they play. Old Trafford, Manchester United’s home field, is one of the oldest athletic facilities in the world. It opened in 1910 and carries the rightful handle, “The Theatre of Dreams.”
An angel at twilight,
A saint at dawn’s light,
A reflection of my gleaming soul,
Nature’s wondrous creation in whole.
Curtains dance to brontide,
Blepharist to life’s stride,
Nailed, foxed and cursed,
Effete, Puling, and crippled.
In a lonely room’s corner,
Stationed am I, a destitute quaffer,
Bibbling to the depths of my soul,
Champing nosh to my will’s full,
In a relationship of me, myself, my soul,
Depicting a tale, rather pale and woeful,
Of an humiliated man in curious vacation,
With a ragged beard and oblivious agitation.
How do I gather my poise,
With only a pen to tale a grace,
That moment my soul forsook me,
As my eyes glanced upon thee,
With an everlasting aposiopesis,
Bemused and graveled by time’s poises,
Charmed by Old Trafford’s opulence,
Ever again to rest in serene sense?
Courtesy: regonline.co.uk
Hopes and fairy dreams stand deracinated,
As the lads onto the pitch enter unabated,
Football’s played to a poetic fragrance,
Art’s treasured in prosaic semblance,
Midfield’s artistry in joyance,
Giving throes and afflictions, riddance,
Expunging frailties to annihilation,
Entitling us for an eternal celebration.
Long, thick and dark into the night,
I breathe, brimming at Football’s might,
Moaning at ‘tis absence,
Guzzling in vengeance.
Hearts are nails, no roseate tints,
Flowers, thorns, no roseate tints.
But once, and as I grow old, love embraces,
Me instead of I it, life and Football reminisces,
Of a sempiternal time at Old Trafford’s shine,
That yielded odors of an ageless wine.
Dear Manchester United, embrace me, my soul,
For thou art an arsenal, to my ever glinting soul.
