ΨιτιsτηεΒέsτ

I ran a race. In front of me, 

Was a man who ran too fast to see.

And then he blew his knee.

He trembled on his sturdy leg,

Fell down to the ground, and rolled like an egg.

He was the 13th reg.

He fell in front of me.

I jumped and cleared him and soon was free.

I was first, to win was only feet.

I glanced behind.

And into my mind 

Came his eyes, his long for someone kind.

With one more step to be stepped, 

My mind had his pleading kept.

My heart leaped.

He wailed in pain.

He was hurt, slain.

And what did I have to gain?

I stopped.

For me, the trophy had been dropped.

And I flew back, 12 soon topped.

I heard the chears, 

But I only felt the rears

As I grabbed 13’s hand wet by tears.

We walked the rest of the race.

Sixty years and I returned.

I saw the track that I had spurned.

And saw 12, and remembered the lesson I had learned.

He stood alone, a frown to his face.

I stood with friends, surrounded by grace.

And I thought once more that it was not just a race.