Mustard seed sometimes blow upon the winds,
They blow across feilds... their own, across strange new fields,
and through cities. There many of the wandering seed die,
smashed on windshields, crushed beneath heavy trucks or unsuspecting leather shoes.
Some seed settle on windowsills and sow for a steady future.
They can no longer bear the dangers of nomadic life.
The rest they ride on the winds, onward looking,
feeling, singing, seeing and dying...they ride.
The Dancing Muses - for continuous inspiration.
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