The Finest Hour Poem by Anupama Anpat

The ramp was set,
all the norms met.
Competitors lined up,
determined to win the cup.


Breath was coming short and fast,
resolved to run till stamina lasts.
No more room for nerves,
focusing and judging the turves.


Working out the vantage point,
adrenaline rushing through the joints,
listening for the gun shot,
steadying positions on the dot.


At the report of the gun,
the race had begun.
With the agility of a sword,
body moved in accord.


Moving swiftly forward,
in leaps covering the sward,
a runner gained ground,
to the finish line he was bound.


As the end came in sight,
he ran with all his might.
With speed of a lightning bolt,
he reached his goal.


He took a look at the crowd,
his countrymen stood proud.
This was his finest hour,
he thought, from people comes the real power.