Must to the rising crescendo he listen,
Given, before dawn, the early cry?
His morrow fatigue he scratches off,
And commences for a key to the sky.

Warm at heart he resonates icy air
And tunes it at work to fancy his mind.
The epiphany of his potential ability
Shall not waste or it shall decline.

The path to a dream he knows all well,
Seeing the lowest achieve exalted crest.
Labor to toil with unrest cascades to his key,
And effort meets the zenith of the best.