They called my name like a verdict passed,
Not a blessing, not a prayer,
Said Stand up now, the world is burning,
As if I’d put the fire there.
I watched the brave step forward first,
Hearts steady, eyes alight,
Yet somehow fate kept pulling me
From the edges of the fight.
Chosen ones are usually the least willing,
We don’t reach—we’re dragged ahead,
We hear the cost before the glory,
See the ending, feel the dead.
If destiny is a crown of flame,
I wear it asking why—
Chosen ones are usually the least willing,
Because they know what has to die.
I tried to pass the burden on,
To stronger hands than mine,
But every road I turned away
Just bent back to the sign.
The eager call it purpose,
The wise call it a trap,
But the unwilling know the truth:
There is no turning back.
Chosen ones are usually the least willing,
Not heroes carved from stone,
Just those who couldn’t close their eyes
And leave the world alone.
I never asked to save a thing,
I only chose to stay—
And that is why the unwilling ones
Are chosen anyway.
