For my choristers, preparing for competition
There
can be only three, of course
In
this race for dominance.
Three
winners.
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
Offered
freely
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.
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