When I was young I had no love for dance
But Fate stepped in and offered me a chance
To take the hand of Beauty if I dared
And so I went without a backward glance.

A young man’s mind is like a darting hare
That leaps without direction here and there
Until he sees a doe across the field;
Then all who stand between had best beware.

The fires of youth forge iron into steel
And burn with inspiration and with zeal
Yet passion’s flames do only half the deed;
Art’s subtle form takes wisdom to reveal.

The greatest horse may run with lightning’s speed
And perfectly define its ancient breed,
But lacking a firm hand upon the rein
It cannot hope to be a Sultan’s steed.

When artists are by patron’s will restrained,
Their hands weighed down by duty’s heavy chains,
They grumble and complain at every task,
But only through such work can strength be gained.

The master his apprentice e’er will ask
To do this thing and then complete that task
And though he may not offer glowing praise
He smiles behind the disapproving mask.

The boy will serve his master night and day
To learn the skills for which his sweat has paid
Until one day he wakes, surprised, to find
Himself a man and master of his trade.

The master’s role is only half-defined
Until, as he was trained, he trains in kind:
The wild horse, the fire, the leaping hare
He must now seek and as apprentice bind.

This is a ruba’iyat written for the bardic competition at Silver Hammer, hosted by the Barony of Thor’s Mountain on October 31, 2010.