A bowl of Rice, Soft, simmered And milky white. Evenly shaped, Each one like the next.
Rice was this abundance of Easy going grain. Wholesomely predictable But comforting all the same.
The Pol Sambol had double his fury A haphazard mix of harsh spices Woven into soft textures. The tangy taste of lime, With a sweet coconuty crunch. A burst. A passion. An unevenness. A pattern.
Palatable extremes That Rice had grown to love.
Their journey never began, So there journey will end in never.
Rice was the base. And Pol Sambol was the taste. And so they lived forever.