For my choristers, preparing for competition
There can be only three, of course
In this race for dominance.
Your eyes say it all:
How sweet, to be one of them.
I tell you this:
The measure of winning is not in points
Not even in skill
But in the journey:
The cost of time and discipline
In gritted teeth and sleepless nights.
You lay at my feet
A sacrifice of grit and guts
The best of your abilities
Your all, held in cupped hands
The gift of the Magi
More precious than any treasure.
My children, my loves, know this:
Stand tall, stand proud.
You have already conquered
And I, recipient of such bounty
Can only stand, amazed
In humble gratitude.