Standing tall, a million soldiers in a field.
Bowing in the breeze to which they yield.
Here one day and gone the next.
With each gust your stalks are flexed.
Growing proud, green, strong and spritely.
Dancing on the breeze ever so lightly.
Come then the drought, dry up the rain.
Green to brown, the first to fall is slain.
Felled by the wind, starved of supply,
Around him others fall, in the same way die.
Then passes months and spring rounds the bend.
Soon the summer rains will bring drought to an end.
As water falls on the soldiers again,
Only then life springs from lifeless pain.
Soon the secret soldiers break the ground, seen.
Still yet small but lively and green.
A perfect example of our lives that quickly pass,
Or maybe the story of the life of grass?