People know the

Dishes you've presented

But are they willing

To try the taste 

That you've so incorporated

Into the landscape 

That people are dying

To explore,

But fearful, refuse

To go on the journey

And decide to only

Judge on the presentation,

Pointing out the fowl

Smell, critiquing

Your lack of talent

Without noticing the

Beating heart

Underneath, which

Creates a spice for

Such a dish

They call it a poor

Execution, they point 

Out how much time

You've had but wasted,

Staring at the pan

With oil burning your

Skin, the same oil that

Claimed to annoint you

As it baptized you with 

Fire, saying it's too

Late to turn from

Your sins, while refusing

To taste your dish?