In silence drawn, the archers take their aim,
With steady hands, they line up at the bow,
The arrows fly, a dance of fate and flame,
Each striking true, as whispers start to grow.

The paper quivers under sharpened tips,
With colors bright, they mark the spot of pride,
Yet in this clash, it’s not just skill that grips,
But hearts that beat, and dreams they choose to guide.

So watch them soar, like hopes upon the breeze,
As laughter mingles with the tense delight,
In each shot fired, a chance to seize,
To find the victor in this vibrant sight.

For glory’s crown rests not on hits alone,
But in the joy of every heart made known.

Tomaž Jevšenak