Beneath the soil, in breathless night,
A seed lies folded, out of sight.
No voice, no wind, no root, no flame—
Yet something stirs without a name.

It holds a silence deep and wide,
A hush the stars themselves can’t hide.
Within its shell, a vow is kept,
A dream untouched, a truth that slept.

Then comes a pull—so faint, so kind,
Born of the universal mind.
The shell, once firm, begins to part,
Led not by force, but divine heart.

A thread descends through silent deep,
Where shadows stir and secrets sleep.
And upward too, it dares to rise,
Drawn by the kiss of unseen skies.

The days move on in quiet grace,
No rush, no fear, no frantic race.
Each inch it climbs past soil and stone,
Moves with a timing of its own.

The root dives down, the shoot climbs high—
Both longing toward a whispered why.
The soil is dense, yet lets it go—
For magic pulses as it grows.

At dawn it stirs, the earth grown thin,
And stretches where the light pours in,
To enter into sunlit world—
Its breath of green sprouts and unfurls.

The seed is gone, yet not undone;
It sings now in the leaf and sun.
No longer buried, blind, or small—
It plays its tune, at one with all.