As the sun rises,
as the sun sets,
another day passes and
another day inching toward
the third year's graduation.
This unspeakable notion
Goes without words as the
minutes hours days weeks months
blur together to create the hallowed space
Inhabited by the gym where practice held
that would be washed away
by new players, washed clean by rain and tears and cleaning products.
will the legacy created
by the third years, the same players
creating a foundation to build upon
that the rest of the students will forget exist
but instead, take for granted.
How will you be remembered
when your accomplishments
force you to keep your head down
despite the applause, despite the adrenaline of the win?
Who will remember to tell your story?
That's for the third years to decide;
a lament for the forgotten third years,
their swan song buried beneath muddled memories,
the effects of their existence naught but cloudy half-recollection
until someone diligent digs up
the legends passed down from captain to captain
and then, the memory of the third year remains,
in all its gilded glory.