Echoes of Forgotten Dreams

We honor the memories of a once-vibrant tennis court, where passion and hope flourished amidst the echoes of lost glory and faded dreams.

In the smoky haze of the bar, I serve stale drinks to tired souls, while outside, the sun blazes down on the court, rackets slapping the balls like the sound of fate cracking, each serve is a gamble, a hope tossed into the net, and I can't help but think: I’m just a waiter in life’s dingy café, my apron stained with the remnants of indifferent pleas, while the players dance on the green, striking the ball as if it carries their dreams. Between pours and table scraps, I catch glimpses of that rage, that passion, like the violinistlost in his notes, breaking his strings, each point fought for, bleeding like my hands, and when the match ends, I wonder— will I ever step onto that court, or am I destined to be the shadow, always watching, never holding the racket.