Warm Hearts

I have a calling, but voices of gods
Don't reach me, only songs of wrath and woe.
My father warned me that I ought to go,
But I remained, among the bards and bawds,
To manufacture ink, sing holy lauds,
Divest myself of feathers, make a show
Of building warm hearts' havens in the snow,
And fighting on, always, against the odds.

I don't know what this calling is, but soon
It will announce itself, and I will rise
To meet my destiny. Don't catechize;
That's my employment, once the amber moon
Fades into nothing, like an old cartoon.
My heart is warm, although it isn't wise.