In a vase of pebbles and flowers, a tiny, quiet bead.
It smiled at the flowers and wondered with awe,
It spoke with the pebbles and thought of its flaw.
It heard of the sounds of air and roars of the sky,
And tales by the rays about dust that go awry.
The liquid silver from the skies would calm it down,
Cold as it may seem, they still had a colorful crown.
There was the shiver of the dew, when the flowers seemed to sleep.
The pebbles went silent, the sunlight... too precious to keep.
How often does the world change in the world outside its own?
The seed wondered, was it worthy to venture out and be s(h)own?
The dust ichor did taste of dark earth and a muddied loom,
But the gold-scented dawn caressed it, as leaves began to bloom.
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