Cries of the seed – Delhi Poetry Slam

Cries of the seed

By Pushpa Nalavade

Help! Help! a tiny seed did plead,
“Don’t bury me here, I cannot breathe",
Trampled beneath indifferent feet,
Lost in the shadows of the street.

I feel disgraced, this isn’t my creed,
For I am the bearer of life indeed,
The silent feeder of their need,
From which their countless hungers feed.

Yet, buried deep, I did not die,
Nor did I cower or fear the sky.
The storms that raged and drenched my coat,
The scorching suns that set afloat,
None shook my core, nor made me sigh,
For Nature’s hands craft, sculpt, and ply.

I embraced the dance of rain and light,
The eternal spin from day to night.
In nature’s cryptic grand design,
Where growth is but a silent sign.

My form was split, my heart was torn,
Yet from this pain, new life was born.
Unseen, I thrived, beneath the loam,
In that dark earth, I found a home.

And as I pushed through soil to sun,
A tapestry of life was spun.
Given names by those who reap,
Unaware of the promises I keep.
They use me as they will, and when,
Unknowing that I’ll rise again.
For I am crafted by Nature’s hand,
A vital thread in her vast plan.

I am the seed, born of the land,
Destined to grow, to feed, to stand.
So heed the whispers of the seed.
Respect the life that lies in need.
For I am more than soil and shell,
In every heart, I’m meant to dwell.
As cycles turn and seasons sway,
In Nature’s arms, I'll always stay.
A testament to her endless play
“I am creation, I am the way.!


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