From cosmic lands, where hidden, face, from sun,
Where latent ripened harvests of the time
There dines upon refinement–now begun:
A nib with keenest point, with gift, sublime,
To, brisk, befoul itself, another’s crime.
The spoiled black crop in umbra’s cauldron oozed
From whence the inkless nib does lap the grime,
Where, born to these, the blackest ink to use,
For none, acquitted, born without the festered bruise.