Frail and housebound, he shakes unable to speak.

Degenerating, debilitated
The Champ who floated like a butterfly
Is stung by time.Largely forgotten in our day to day lives
As we worry about different fights.

In simpler times we knew who our enemies were
Who to root for, which side to support.
The very name Muhammed raises eyebrows
And hackles.

Different times.

He was Great though, back then.
That burnished skin, glossy and firm
Dancing around the ring.
Muscles memory perfect.
A poem to wind up the opponent
then
Classic Clay so fast,
Upper cuts appearing out of the blue
Monochrome screens at home turning blood grey
So that it seemed safe to watch.

Now with twenty-four-seven blood on our screens
We seem inured to the pain of others

Until we cry, and cannot stop.

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