The gates have swung close in the prepossessing Soccer City Stadium.
The last dregs of humanity have seeped away and melded into the oblivion of everyday life.
The admixture of sweat, blood, and tears on the lush green carpet must have long evaporated into the cool night air of Johannesburg, the epicentre of a month-long antipodean revelry.
The mindless and tuneless drone of the vuvuzelas has disintegrated in the ether of the environment, our memories.
A lone Jabulani football rests desolate near the corner flag where Xavi's boot had graced moments ago. Moments that are so far away, and moments that have long yellowed away in my memory, our memories and the world's memory.
World Cup 2010 is no more. Booted aside by the short attention span of our memories, the exigencies and responsibilities of everyday life; by the overarching fame of the octopus, Paul and his animal kameraden, Mani, the parakeet.
So long Xavi, Busquets, Sneijder, Suarez, Mueller, Forlan.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment