Inside a pomegranate's red core,
I listened, hidden, wanting more.
A tiny seed, so new and bright,
Dreamed dreams of sun, and air, and light.
"Someday," it said, with hopeful sound,
"I'll be a tree, on fertile ground.
The wind will sing a leafy song,
And I'll be beautiful, strong, and long."
Another seed, a little old,
Its youthful fancy now grown cold,
Said, "Those were dreams I used to hold,
But life's a story, often told,
Of hopes that fade, and futures grim,
These dreams of yours are far too slim."
A third seed sighed, "I cannot see,
Such greatness waiting there for me."
A fourth cried out, "But if it's true,
No future waits, what shall we do?
Our life a joke, a pointless seed?"
A fifth seed asked, "A futile deed,
To guess the future, when we don't
Know even what we are, we won't."
The sixth declared, with certain air,
"Whatever we are, we'll always share."
The seventh whispered, soft and low,
"I know the path, but cannot show."
Then voices rose, a growing hum,
The eighth, the ninth, the tenth had come.
Each had a thought, a different plea,
A swirling mass, confusingly.
Too many voices, loud and fast,
I couldn't tell which dream would last.
So, seeking peace, a quiet place,
I moved to quince, with silent grace,
Where fewer seeds, in slumber deep,
Held secrets they would softly keep.
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 7:45 PM UTC
Inside a pomegranate's red core,
I listened, hidden, wanting more.
A tiny seed, so new and bright,
Dreamed dreams of sun, and air, and light.
"Someday," it said, with hopeful sound,
"I'll be a tree, on fertile ground.
The wind will sing a leafy song,
And I'll be beautiful, strong, and long."
Another seed, a little old,
Its youthful fancy now grown cold,
Said, "Those were dreams I used to hold,
But life's a story, often told,
Of hopes that fade, and futures grim,
These dreams of yours are far too slim."
A third seed sighed, "I cannot see,
Such greatness waiting there for me."
A fourth cried out, "But if it's true,
No future waits, what shall we do?
Our life a joke, a pointless seed?"
A fifth seed asked, "A futile deed,
To guess the future, when we don't
Know even what we are, we won't."
The sixth declared, with certain air,
"Whatever we are, we'll always share."
The seventh whispered, soft and low,
"I know the path, but cannot show."
Then voices rose, a growing hum,
The eighth, the ninth, the tenth had come.
Each had a thought, a different plea,
A swirling mass, confusingly.
Too many voices, loud and fast,
I couldn't tell which dream would last.
So, seeking peace, a quiet place,
I moved to quince, with silent grace,
Where fewer seeds, in slumber deep,
Held secrets they would softly keep.
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