The seeds

And it's been long,
since we’ve been asleep,
placing more trust
in words than in deeds.

Buying the age-old
‘Saviour’ script,
hoping someone
will set us free.

“We are just the seeds,
we are just the seeds,
yet to sprout,
and scared of weeds.”
Screaming, distressed,
fragile and weak,
believing either
gets to live.

But our voices
could only reach
the shrubs and plants
within a few feet,
and then their roots,
locked underneath,
which held us from
running down the stream.

“We are just the seeds,
we are just the seeds.”
Our voices echoed
and reached the trees
that spread their leaves
like canopies,
shielding us
from scorching heat.

“We are just the seeds,
we are just the seeds.”
Our voices softened,
but fear persisted.
As we sprouted,
we looked at weeds,
saw migrating birds
feeding on it.

And amidst all this,
a storm visited,
we sunk our roots,
tightened our grip.
No more were we
merely the seeds,
nor were we
the trees from it.

“There are new seeds,
there are new seeds,
who need the sun,
and they’re blocking it,”
said the bees
who rest on us
before they went
to rest in peace.

So we rose in unity,
and danced and swayed
to call the winds,
for if they blew
some clouds away
across the hills,
these seeds may live.

Again we hear
that sacred hymn,
“We are just the seeds,
we are just the seeds.”
This time we saw
I was in their way,
now what to do,
was up to me.

And as I breathed
my one last breath,
the scene from the past
came right to me,
Would I have screamed
without those weeds?
What makes them think
that they’re just the seeds?