The cursed ball
1.The Round of Life, Hindered
The sun, a liquid coin, plunged low in the west,
Creating long shaded areas, scrutinizing fears.
Be that as it may, here, in this dusty path, where stresses were not many,
Kids pursued shadows, a dynamic, lighthearted group.
A shoddy field, with stones for an objective,
Their chuckling a tune, a blissful, out of control soul.
The ball, a ragged buddy, a companion as the years progressed,
An image of opportunity, banishing fears.
With each kick, a flood of unadulterated joy,
The breeze in their hair, washed in the blurring light.
A tackle, a tumble, a naughty smile,
The world neglected, where the game could start.
The air thick with dust, and the aroma of sweet grass,
An ensemble of movement, a passing, upbeat mass.
Each pass, an association, a bond got it,
A brief snapshot of effortlessness, in this sun-soaked wood.
Be that as it may, shadows extended, a threatening tone,
The giggling died down, as a trepidation got through.
Bootsteps weighty, a musical, unpropitious beat,
The kids' down, a delicate, transient treat.
A chilling quiet, as the fighters showed up,
Their countenances terrible, their eyes cold and unfeared.
The kids froze, an unexpected, chilling fear,
Their guiltlessness broke, their delight always escaped.
The round of life, so indiscreetly played,
Presently transformed into a bad dream, a chilling act.
Rifles raised high, a threatening sight,
The youngsters dispersed, escaping in the blurring light.
Shots rang out, a horrible, shaking tune,
The air thick with smoke, where they once had a place.
Bodies folded, a terrible, grim scene,
The giggling supplanted by a sorrowful, chilling sharp.
The residue presently stained, not with brilliant beams,
Be that as it may, red tints, in a shocking, nauseating murkiness.
The reverberations waited, an eerie refrain,
Of guiltlessness broke, and youngsters killed.
The ball, when an image of happiness and enjoyment,
Presently stained with distress, a ghastly, chilling sight.
An observer quiet to the silly deed,
A frightful sign of the unfortunate seed.
The round of life, so remorselessly diminished,
A horrible sign of the world's dim shroud.
Where euphoria was once conceived, presently just depression,
A quiet demonstration of the detestations they bear.
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