He built a score of fires,
Each higher than the last,
And plunged into the heart
Of each, a dozen irons.
He loaded twenty ships
With treasures from afar,
To complement, he said,
The pickings of the fire.
Filled up with jubilation,
And anxious expectation,
He carried on his work,
Unflinching, reassured
That each and every effort
Would in due course, reward him
For all his sacrifices,
All the pain that he’d endured.
But one by one the fires
First flickered, then died out,
And one by one his ships
Were wrecked, capsized or squalled.
And gradually he realised
Within his heart of hearts,
That he would not be chosen,
That some are never called...
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