I have once been told
Of a pregnant grain in a bowl
Whose virginity was broken
At the point of harvest
And of a farmer
Whose hands fertilizes
The womb of the earth.
Beneath the earth burried the grain
And the fouth page of the day turned over
... that the dead grain resurrected
Is a story of a thousand years.
In the course of time
The grain then now provide shade
Its silhouette being spelt on the grain.