ἡμῖν δὲ ἀποδεικτέον αὖ τοὐναντίον, ὡς ἐπ᾽ εὐτυχίᾳ τῇ μεγίστῃ παρὰ θεῶν ἡ τοιαύτη μανία δίδοται.

Plato (Phaedrus)

The wand of balance tips the scale
Where man is wont to walk between.
Eudemian norms may guide the ail
And rest us all in pastures green.

The mount is hard when low we scale,
Yet will those meek in laughter loath.
The master glows and leaves a trail,
For he has sworn the sacred oath.

And gentle he who lifts the scale
And oints the wound with precious balm.
With practice, hands will not grow stale;
With practice, hands may coin in alm.

If silver be not clear in scale,
And man unwell meets mortician:
Wonder not should he tell the tale—
Lo, the touch of the physician.

[This is the first poem I sent to the woman I call Iris. I have written many poems about her, but have sent her none.]

Surra,
November, 2023.