In the dim-lit room of ancient lore,
The master speaks, his voice a roar.
"Observe, young one, this leech's bite,
A skill you'll need in darkest night.
For humors four, we must appease,
To cure the body's dire disease.
Blood, the air, must flow and drain,
To balance life, to ease the pain."
The apprentice, trembling, eyes the leech,
Its writhing form, a lesson's breach.
"Master, please, it's vile and grim,
Why must we use this creature's whim?"
The master, stern, with no reprieve,
"Your fears, young one, you must relieve.
For in this leech, our knowledge lies,
A truth that science yet defies.
Feel its grip, the blood it draws,
A testament to nature's laws.
Forget your dread, embrace the art,
For medicine demands your heart."
The leech attaches, blood does flow,
The apprentice learns, though fear does grow.
A lesson harsh, a truth profound,
In ancient ways, the answers found.
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