A poem about the death of Diego Maradona
You were born poor. You probably also died poor. God gave you a gift. You knew how to play football. You were a hero to millions, a church was founded for you, women worshipped you, and men envied you, when you were young and a god. Then you were a spitting image to millions. Fat, drug addict, unpredictable. That's what an athlete's life is like as a living god. No one expected you to live to be old. That's what booze and drugs do. You numbed your heart and soul with them. You didn't die forgotten, but we don't know about statues to you.