A poet monk of some repute
Was known to run a yearly class.
And all who came to learn from him
Returned their way with hearty laughs.
The monk, according to his faith,
Would say a thing that made no sense,
But soon, they’d find an ocean worth
Of poems flowing from their pens.
When asked, the students never told
The secret that the monk had shared.
But on the day the wise one died,
They hung the scroll he’d once prepared.
And now you find its copies stuck
On tables where some poets sit.
The secret to all poetry:
“At first, begin. Then, finish it.”