Fluid but not languid,
As powerful as a cascade,
Sliding without skidding,
As smooth as silk,
But maybe too smooth
Her feet lose traction on the polished floor.
The soft thop of a shuttlecock kissing racket,
One of many in the arena,
Are vital signs of the volley.
In the midst of every beat
Exists a tense silence.
Thop
Silence
Thop
Silence
Thop
Silence
Plop
The volley died in its bringing forth a point.
Her arm as slender as it seems
Bears tremendous force,
Lending the birdie wings,
Over a netted impasse.
No different than a marionette on strings,
Her body lunges and reaches;
Her arm twists and stretches;
Her leg bends as if to break,
Just to end the volley’s life on the other side,
With a high arch,
OrĀ a straight line,
Or a low arch,
The birdie flies no more.
The game is over;
The match is won.
Until the next time
– Anonymous