An unfinished book, stopped mid-word,
A wooden carving a half-formed bird,
A song half-sung and forgotten,
A painting with unfinished fields of cotton.
These are the works of no motivations.
All once dearly beloved creations,
but then left in the end, half done.
In the beginning they were strong and fun,
but in the end thought of with contempt.
As if it all had been dreamt.
Oh, but what is commonly thought
of one who ne’er in his life fought
to do what he knows must be done
The battle to fight, the race to run?
Shall we with awe think of him
who ne’er finishes what he starts on a whim?
Oh, but let our creed forever be
to fight to the end, so all may see
A book finished, strong to the conclusion,
A wooden bird, so real as to be an illusion,
A song sung so beautifully, flowing to the end,
a painting so sweet, and to bewitching to lend.
So all may see and all may know
they worked on, and see what they show?
Dreams and wishes worth fighting for
A love and Ambition worth the struggles of war.