He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed.

Hope is a terrible thing. It's the bane of Arsenal fandom. The next game will be better, the next week, next season. It's always the same. First a debilitating loss to Monaco in the first leg of their Champions League round of 16 tie, then a run of wins and a near comeback in the return leg. Dying minutes of the game, a scramble in the opponent's penalty area; the ball falls to a waiting Arsenal forward, Olivier Giroud, who misses the goal by inches. Knocked out, but the effort was good. Next time will be better. Now a spark of hope flashes up, then a sea of despair rages, and always pain; always pain, always despair, and always the same.

Cesc Fabregas is alone in the visitors' dressing room as Chelsea prepare to play Queens Park Rangers. His bright cell phone screen shines like a beacon within the dark cavern. His face is slightly illuminated as he stares wistfully at the device. He's checking his Twitter mentions. The tweets are storming in. Football fans laughing, mocking and sarcastically mentioning his unsurprising dip in form during the second half of the season. The bios of the users read: Arsenal fan, supporter of Arsenal, Arsenal, Arsenal. His eyes rim with tears. He turns off the device and sighs deeply.

"Cesc," an excited Oscar peeks his head into the door. "Cesc, hurry up, it's almost time to walk out to the pitch." Fabregas regains his composure, puts on his mask and runs out to his awaiting teammates.

I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, "That fellows got to swing."

As he walked out side by side with players that he once hated, in a kit that he had declared, as a young man, that he would never be seen in, Fabregas thought about a time long ago when his heart was lighter. He had been the star of Arsenal football club. The beloved son of North London. Adored worldwide for his incisive passing, creativity and ability to drag the team forward when no one else would take the mantle. He was the captain and the fans cherished him. At the height of his powers, they would sing: "We've got Cesc Fabregas!" repeatedly.

He thought of these things because a man never forgets the ones he loves. And he thought of them because here against QPR, Chelsea could practically seal the title with a win. Their closest challengers being Arsenal, who are in second place with 4 points separating the teams. Though Chelsea has two games in hand, Arsenal had hope. "Hope," he muttered, "what a silly thing. The mistake of Epimetheus. He should have freed it with the rest of plagues"

Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel.

The match was dull but so is life. It was a game that epitomized both teams and also the monochromatic shade of human existence. Fabregas walked through it like a man who had worked his office job for so long that the lackluster nature of the routine had become an extension of him. Wake up, shower, brush teeth, eat and go to the office. Come home, turn on the TV, drink and then fall asleep. Repeat. Show for the ball, receive the pass, send it sideways or backwards. No room for the unconventional. No room for living. Nothing happens. Here and there you go sky-diving or Joey Barton gets a yellow but even those have become routine as well.

The clock was running down, as it does on all of us. Fabregas, in the midst of the chaos, thought of how cruel time is. He had returned to Barcelona, his childhood club, because his soul had yearned for it. It was an affair of the heart. He went back even though they had not wanted him when he was younger. And when that ended, as everything does, he yearned to return to Arsenal. But the world moves on and love is a fragile concept. Fabregas had been replaced. Mesut Özil and Santi Cazorla had usurped his role, and they were prospering in it. He had expected open arms but instead was met closed doors.

I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye; The man had killed the thing he loved And so he had to die.

In a match like this, the first team to blink loses the game. And when you employ Rob Green, you're essentially employing spring allergies. Two minutes from time, the histrionic goalkeeper was at fault for a bad clearance. Eden Hazard, Chelsea's centurion of the day, pounced on the mistake, as good warriors do. Fabregas stood to his left, and when he received the pass, he buried his shot, and with it, the hopes Arsenal fans had of catching Chelsea for the title. Always the same.

Fabregas ran to celebrate with his teammates. Elated, he kissed the shirt that he had once demonized. A man can only travel down the road laid before him. The boos from the QPR fans were drowned by the cheers of his new lovers, the Chelsea supporters. When the celebrations died down, after his teammates were done congratulating him, Fabregas walked back to the center circle. He adjusted his mask. He had become the villain. A wry smile forced its way onto his face.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!