More of smog than of stars[1],
The race was a passionate love
For the art of power,
The dance of the drivers
And the music of the engines. I waited helplessly.
My sweaty fingers twined together, crossing them
So tightly. It hurt. My lips chanted his name - “Fernando[2]”,
With silent prayer for this horse of a broken leg,
He never won, but today was special.
We would conquer this airless summit
For I was there to witness. Not on a television,
But of perceptible form, he rode his yellow Renault
In front of my moist eyes, he climbed up the order.
But more than a mere idol, more than inspiration,
He was breath itself – life.
Like water, like a mirror, he was me
And he was here for me.
I am one amongst the thousands, but I was different.
Like a black pin on a cork-board of white.
I promised that he will win; it was tangible
Like smelling this sweet, pungent concoction of a miracle
I knew about this, they didn’t.
The golden trophy, the divine podium, I saw myself in them.
He had won, and had waited naively
To do so in my witness
It was of a joy unfelt, unprecedented, and yet it hurt
This vicissitude of a million, I made it happen
But he is blind to even my existence.
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