After inwardly went the bouncing of
three whistles, short, short and long,
through my obstinate eardrums,
was I confronted to three choices,
the likes of certainty had left.
First, was of the air inhaled in leather.
And promised me of a death serene,
not unless I let it enter,
to revolt a tempest inside, smelling
of poison to match the traitor’s, as said,
I had breathed in thus far.
Ignored it, then descended in the second.
Affirmed the grass bracing my boots,
to sprout wild on my stampings, and curtain
the identity of a mistake I done;
For all I must confess is fake deliberation.
Came last was the torching red.
And made me relay to scorch away
the misdeeds consigned, along with me,
more or less only if I bear heavily,
the rampant burns of a betrayer.
Negligence, I stood upon,
for I wished to die for my cause.
In a manner, more inevitably passionate
and affectionately patriotic.
Rather of air or grass or sun,
I shall die of a bullet,
powdered with their dismay to the belief
they showered upon me,
coated along emotions of fellow
Columbians favouring football.
I shall die of such bullet, content,
for in heaven awaits me a
ground of lush green and
a yellow jersey, paraphrasing my naivety.
For my name is Andres Escobar.
(*The Columbian footballer who conceded an own goal in 1994 FIFA world cup and shot dead by the fans later.)