Nine men converge upon the sunlit field,
A dance of leather, wood, and fleeting time,
Chasing the sphere that arcs through dusty air,
Where history is etched in every throw.
The crowd breathes in anticipation’s pause,
A silence thick with the weight of desire,
As bat meets ball, the crack echoes through space,
And dreams take flight beyond the fence\'s edge.
But all things must return to earth\'s embrace,
The circling bases lead them back again,
In ordered steps, as innings come and go,
Till night descends, the lights flicker and fade.
The players exit, shadows growing long,
The final score a cipher of their will,
Yet more than numbers lingers in the mind—
The game, a fleeting glimpse of what could be.
In this tableau of effort and of grace,
The spirit of the contest never dies,
Each inning, a passage of sacred time,
A ritual of hope beneath the sky’s dome.