With a lamp
in each eye
he ran the race
amazing the ones who stood by;
each step fantastically fast
and the torch in his eyes did flame
against the wind, miraculously cold.
The mark seemed too near at times
and at times far
the stretch and strain of his muscles
and his sweat
all seemed to bear
the weight of humanity's
long forgotten rituals.
The veins of the earth feel the pain of an ancient itch
Turned wound, which the racist opens for fun and win
For he who wants to race against time has a clogging space
That mocks his run, with fire and fume.