09/04/2026
The twilight sky is dim today, night descends on the Barca pitch,
The gallery is hushed in the shame of defeat, hands outstretched in void.
Two souls stand at the edge of the field, lost in the trance of broken dreams,
Pedri and Lamine—like a weary, sorrowful dawn.
In the pupils of two youths, clouds of sorrow gather,
Tears of shattered dreams fall upon the grass of the field.
Parched with the thirst for a single victory, their faces are pale,
Today, the very heart of Barca has plunged into the depths of defeat.
For eleven springs, I have lived in the hope of a trophy, and perhaps, another one has been added to the tally.
If the hunger of thirty-six years could fade, surely the hunger of eleven years shall fade one day; perhaps that day I will wander all night, intoxicated with joy. O spring, end quickly! At your end, I wait for the rain of hope—many nights have passed, O Barca’s spring, end quickly.
