I have seen a fire burst out, you'd swear it the real thing
And I have seen that flame burn out, no more than kindling.
I have seen an iron so still, you'd hardly name it hot
But it has lain in flame so long, it burns from inside out.
I have seen the gun go off, the breaking from the gate
But who will see the race's end, the aching hour late?
The bowstring stretches tight, and tense, and cruel, and pulls the more
For little arrows pointed at a bright and distant shore.