In the gentle sway of willow’s grace,
A game unfolds in sun’s embrace,
Where whispers of the summer breeze,
Carry dreams upon the leaves.

The bowler’s art, with fervor spins,
A tale of skill, where play begins,
The batsman stands with steady poise,
In silent fields, where echoes voice.

The leather orb, it takes its flight,
Against the sky, in morning light,
A swing, a strike, a fleeting run,
The dance of cricket, never done.

Beneath the azure, time suspends,
Where rival hearts as comrades blend,
In every pitch, a story weaves,
Of hopes and dreams, the spirit leaves.