Sleeping seed, awake to the rain that nourishes your roots and helps you to grow, uncurl through the womb that grips you, the moist damp soil that cradles you. Feel the soil tremble and the pebbles, shudder. The skies open and release. A deluge with the crash of thunder.

Under the terrible moody skies. The yearning, like a siren, calls you from the cradle. The pulse in your belly is the heartbeat of your destiny. Push out, expand, feed your hunger. Release from your shell, or you will perish in your slumber.

No prose will be written of how brightly, or how unfurled, your petals. No fingers felt, pressed, curving your neck. Not a nose or an eye, being drawn to your scent. Your destiny begs you to yield to the yearning and get yourself growing!

The little seed hears the brush of the wind, gliding and, rushing above. The pelt of the rain, a drumbeat, for the pain. She presses on, faith in the siren. Settling roots, reaching unending, bending, and twisting. Uncurling from her hibernation, and at last, greets the world with her splendor!

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