- Humming bees, singing birds, the sun high in the sky.
- A burning fire, deep and old, within the heart did lie.
- A sojourn in the desert land, maturing of a rose.
- Returning home, out again, the grassland he had chose.
- There he planted, firm and sure, growing as an oak.
- Some bending here and swaying there, but not even once had broke.
- Then to the mount to seek the light, one day he felt to try.
- He made the climb, found the light, descended, said goodbye.
- But then, a flash! He buckled down: smitten, beaten, sore.
- He gasped for breath—bruised, in pain—and begged from on the floor.
- No one came, no helping hand—just abandoned and alone.
- And there he sat, for weeks and months, forgotten, as a stone.
- No humming bees. No singing birds. No light to linger on.
- Just fire, soap, chaff, and dross. The pearl, in darkness, gone.
