yes

when the applause dies
and with it the critics’ cries
when stadiums taught to riot
fall forlorn, empty, quiet
when the walk feels alone
and mute stares the phone
when trophies lose their gold
and 16 feels very old
when the willow lifts too heavy
like a tax too unfair to levy
when fresh sinews dare
to try be worthy of compare
when the world starts to forget
its eternal crushing debt
when a new age asks who
and pray what did he do?
when hundreds seem to fade to zero
you will then, as now, be my hero.

ram cobain
saaaaachin sachin

(coincidentally - or divinely - my 100th poem on this blog!)