In one bowl
scoop in truth
with fine milled grains.
Too much is data,
less seems trite,
though which way will affect
the wisdom this contains.
Next measure beauty,
cause too much is kitsch
and less seems dry.
Tradition makes this rise.
When foaming mix
(or you'll get lumpy prose)
Then knead the words
to build good lines
that ties it pliant, firm.
Next leave it it's repose.
While ferment builds,
the magic's starting,
for it's up to chance.
Then, when it's at it's prime,
you punch it down.
Then punch it down once more.
Next shape to form,
let rise, and
bake in time.
Then test it if it is done.
You'll pay for haste.
This sonnet's hot and fresh.
You like the taste?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem