A wide array of poetry is esteemed by those who speak it.
Some is garbage. Some is soundly proverbial,
and some is lunatic discourse coating its reciter in a pall.
Some is easy-going, and some is bombast. There are quiescent endings
and there are lines that ramble on and on.
In poetry, there are refuse-flingers, plagiarists
and imitators, and there are some who make it new.
Leave that! and tend the verses of your own weaving.
Some are bound to be noble, after you have journeyed through.
Lines 55-58 of a 97-line poem by Nabighat Bani Shayban (meter: basīṭ)
