So many words are flung that start a war
So many wars are ended at a word
And it is words - not clothing, fame or gold
That separate a peasant from his Lord

So many think that simply pouring forth
Whatever roils within on moment's thought
Becomes, by default, sacred. But, alas...
True poetry is not so cheaply bought.

You who would master rhythm, rhyme and time
Who search the world for words succinct and sweet
Know that an artist's path is paved with blood
And very few can kiss the Muse's sacred feet

So pour forth beauty, ugliness, and pain
Bring forth deluge of words in mind's quick wake
A child's crude sketch won't match a master's print
And scrawling gibberish a poet won't make.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Fas, in the year 435 AD.