The floodlights are suddenly cold.
Grass is growing wild where dreams once ran.
No anthem. No drums.
Only the wind moving through empty stands.

It feels strange,
To miss something that was never perfect,
But still ours to call.
The chaos, the chants,
The flags raised high.

Now the ball lies still,
and so do we,
scrolling through old scores,
searching for that sound again,
The one that made our hearts race, faster than time itself.

Just when football was finding its voice,
Indian Football has fallen quiet.
This silence, this waiting,
Is heavier than any loss on the pitch.

Was it too much to dream?
Was it too much to believe?
Expecting the league to live,
and the stories would stay?

But we remember what it means to play,
To hope, to belong.
Because football here never ends,
It only waits,
For someone to let it begin again.

The people long for the chants,
The raised flags,
The rivalries, the clashes,
That’s what was therapeutic in a world of chaos.

SOME SILENCES DESERVE TO BE BROKEN,
THIS IS ONE OF THEM.