The supercomputer, With its logic gates and its AI, It calculates, The questions, the theories, With inhuman perfection, And robotic precision, In order to find, the answer.
SOCCER BALL Green grass, Moist and cool, Its sweet smell fills the air, As it is trampled by the stampede of muddy feet. The soccer ball takes it all in, As it is swiftly passed; Back And forth, Back And forth, Back And forth.
Suddenly, there is silence. Then....smack! For a moment, The ball is floating in the air. Time seems to stand still. The ball feels the wind on its face, Hears the songbird whistling a tune, The tune that it was taught by its parents, Who were taught by there parents, A song that has been sung countless times before, Always somewhat the same, And yet different every time. And then-WHOOSH-it sails softly into the net, Ending the game. Then, it is time to leave, And the ball is gingerly picked up, Placed inside of a dark burlap bag, And taken back to the place it had come from. The place that it is taken is cold and loud. There is no sweet smelling grass, No soft wind on its face, Or birds. No songs of sweet memories are sung in these halls. It is stuck inside a glass case, With pictures of the people with the muddy feet all around it. Occasionally, someone will come to look at it, Or to wipe the dust off of its yellowing old surface. And there it stays, Sleeping, thinking. And dreaming. Dreaming of the day When it will play on the field again. By Mira Age 12
Supercomputer
ReplyDeleteBy Kepler B
The supercomputer,
With its logic gates and its AI,
It calculates,
The questions, the theories,
With inhuman perfection,
And robotic precision,
In order to find,
the answer.
SOCCER BALL
ReplyDeleteGreen grass,
Moist and cool,
Its sweet smell fills the air,
As it is trampled by the stampede of muddy feet.
The soccer ball takes it all in,
As it is swiftly passed;
Back
And forth,
Back
And forth,
Back
And forth.
Suddenly, there is silence.
Then....smack!
For a moment,
The ball is floating in the air.
Time seems to stand still.
The ball feels the wind on its face,
Hears the songbird whistling a tune,
The tune that it was taught by its parents,
Who were taught by there parents,
A song that has been sung countless times before,
Always somewhat the same,
And yet different every time.
And then-WHOOSH-it sails softly into the net,
Ending the game.
Then, it is time to leave,
And the ball is gingerly picked up,
Placed inside of a dark burlap bag,
And taken back to the place it had come from.
The place that it is taken is cold and loud.
There is no sweet smelling grass,
No soft wind on its face,
Or birds.
No songs of sweet memories are sung in these halls.
It is stuck inside a glass case,
With pictures of the people with the muddy feet all around it.
Occasionally, someone will come to look at it,
Or to wipe the dust off of its yellowing old surface.
And there it stays,
Sleeping, thinking.
And dreaming.
Dreaming of the day
When it will play on the field again.
By Mira Age 12