We stand on fertile ground with seeds in hand.
The constant sun continues day to day.
The rain has promised moisture to the land,
and still we hold our seeds in some delay.
We’ve harvested these fertile fields before;
our oldest legends speak of our success.
From meagre means we’ve managed something more
than simple sustenance and fruitfulness.
Dominion of the earth compels our pride
to godly heights above this fruitful field.
We hesitate because we must decide
today how much this goodly earth can yield.
And if our choice is wrong, we fail and die.
Are seeds of wisdom in such short supply?