Sparkatale

Through great and noble toils some god of old

By might and valour ceaselessly endured,

And thus by slow degrees began to climb up,

Above the sullen plain of earth below,

Each pang bringing him closer to his rest,

That peak above the earth, where immortals dwelt,

Ascending to the place that still awaited him,

Once lost, now found, in shouts of glorious triumph.

No glory awaits my labours or my trials,

No cheering crowds to line that filthy road,

Only puzzled faces and down-turned voices,

All spoken from on high to cast me down

To fall from shallower peaks than he of old,

With only cold, wet earth to meet my fall,

And wagging heads to see the scars of my trials,

Dispersing then to attend to some greater business.

Another god must therefore greet those throngs: 

One face turned out to meet their baying gazes,

All etched with grinning valour, ever patient;

And one face, turned away, shall bear the scars

Of all my tribulations and my defeats,

Painted with a glaze of running tears.

Yet, where is the mountain once so gloriously scaled?

Where is that ancient hero's great reward?

For all I meet is flat and cold and dark,

And nothing rises above the cloudy veil.