He pulls hard with the wind at his back,
It's a war he can't afford to lose.
His skillful hands manipulate the string,
the destiny of the battle he will choose.
He wipes the sweat off his brow,
and licks the bruise on his index finger.
The bruise burns as the fresh cut heals,
The taste of blood on his tongue lingers.
It's a taste not alien to him,
It's the taste of victory against the odds,
He squints as the sun enters his line of sight,
as he looks towards the abode of the gods.
The wind god he knows has been kind to him,
For the breeze lifts just as he has got the upper hand.
He pulls hard, concentration writ large on his face,
He tugs hard and his kite dives down towards the land.
The moment pauses as the final move has been made,
His little frame tenses up as the target enters his sight.
The string slices through in an arc towards the ground,
The enemy is pulled back and then goes limp in mid-flight.
He breaks out in a smile of little pearls,
as the little child in him comes to the fore.
His fist punches the air as he looks to the sky,
Another victory to add to his invincible lore.
