Fields of golden fronds are making waves Submitting to the omnipresent breeze. They’re rising out of recent former graves, Growing ever golden by degrees. Such sustenance to humankind it gives. As it has for ages long removed. In unison each species tries to live. What harmony good nature now has proved! The yellow stalks are children of our toil. To us they give their silent gratitude. With human sweat they climbed up from the soil. In return they give themselves as food. Should the sunlight on the wheat burn hot, And desiccate its’ youthful, shining glow. Much suffering would then be mankind’s’ lot. If one should die they both would cease to grow. Our unassuming glares give no regard, To that vital plant which man must grow. In its absence all of life is hard. To this golden plant so much we owe.
I like the wheat growing from graves, new life from old life that gives it's life to sustain other life, i think it would make a good song, dough or no dough
