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SACHIN, SACHIN!

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English Poetry

 

 

Because he’s God, what makes him different?
Won’t rills of tears spill down sans his consent;
won’t blood rush high and high flooding the brain;
when millions chant ‘Sachin, Sachin!’ with pain?
Won’t feel the heat of ecstasy they vent?

His hands clutching the bat, his eyes fervent
waiting for ball, head high, legs bent
as ever that untiring run-machine!
Because he’s God!

When there’re no more of steps for his ascent,
still humble how remains this gent?
I wonder why as Master Blaster; feign
some preen, try some snigger and wry disdain?
Why serious on this last act; what gain?
Because he’s God!

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