A little ugly grain in the box
Is useless, bitter, full of evil jokes,
Until it lays in it's the deepest grave
And is of horror tears a mini slave.
It feels the darkness by a cured flesh,
Gets fusty air from the wooden trash.
It waits for hands to out it from gloom,
To give the chance of dreamy active bloom.
It waits for life, to be an oak tree…
To keep the wisdom, silence, wonder lee…
To touch the sky with its uncertain branch,
To be the Space, soft-hearted, even strange.
It knows the way of pain to see light,
But keeps the grain ground just inside,
It needs the Holly water to punch it…
To breathe with breast of life a little bit…