On Training

It’s not steel that maketh sword
But the fire in which it is wrought
Every strike of hammer counts
Making sword that in war astounds

It’s not wit that maketh man
Nor the strength in his arms
Trained he is to prove his worth
Reach out for sky from the earth

In artist’s hands does the beauty lie
Not in sculptures he maketh by
Magic that his hand play
Bring forth life in shapeless clay

What is man if not trained?
Morales and virtues not ingrained
On his instincts he would feast
Nothing more than a cunning beast

With care and love like a sapling grown
Into flesh a soul is sown
How much sweat and how much pain

Man is all how he is trained