I see a sprinter,
Restless feet and restless eyes, 
A fire within, 
Unbent and unwavering,
Awaiting that race.

The only race that is ever run, 
Towards that elusive goal,
Towards that moment in time, 
A moment of brilliant radiance, 
An orb pulsating in glory. 

The sprinter looks around, 
Gauging his peers,
None are found,
For it isn’t their race,
Only his own.

A shot is heard,
And the race begins, 
The sprinter morphs into a bullet,
Charging towards the pulsating orb, 
His one chance at that elusive life.

And each passing moment, 
Of joy, of despair,
 Is just glimpsed briefly, 
Through the thick veil of pursuit, 
Of frenetic pace.

Adrenaline rushes through, 
Elation and euphoria follow, 
In a daze of his own pace, 
The orb shimmers like an oasis, 
Or was it a mirage instead? 

Other orbs line his path, 
Just as different, just as divine, 
But those are not the ones he seeks, 
The true orb beckons, 
Surely it is destiny? 

A cold is sneaking up on him, 
And his feet blistered, 
But he wouldn’t dream of stopping, 
Not now, surely,
Those years of the race cannot be undone. 

He fumbles and crashes, 
His eyes weary and unfocused, 
The orb dances in his eyes, 
The dream alive, 
Of a life worth living. 

But life has started to dwindle, 
He can feel the light leave, 
In a last scramble, 
He prays to the ground, 
For someone to take his place.

The ground yields, 
And a figure emerges, 
Through the cloud of smoke and dust, 
The baton is passed,
The sprinter finally at peace. 

The veil of pursuit lifts,
And recognition startles the sprinter’s eyes,
For in his final moments,
He can now see the other, his proxy, 
The one with restless feet and restless eyes, 
A fire within, 
Unbent and unwavering,
Awaiting that absurd race,
Oblivious.

Vaibhav