the Old house

Long ago, there, in those narrow alleys a child used to play with dust.
On a step, in simple tracksuit he used to sit alone and swim in the intense heat of the sun to the unknown to me and you.
He did join the heat, an ant did he become, a famous footballer he became, won every match, every one, every life, eternity.
As the sun would take his heat away, rob him of its light but release the cold, the anxious shout of a mother who used to stir him and remind him that she is worried, and it might be the time to leave the lonely alley in which some were playing and each was engrossed in how to avert the oncoming bull-like runner who wanted to get a plastic ball.
As a farewell, they used roll the ball towards him and he reluctantly leaving would shoot the ball as hard as he could and used to stand there and see the ball go out his sight, then turn towards the shout of mother and shuffle into that old house in which she resided.