A grain of wheat for years was kept
Until one day by a broom was swept,
It found its way to a fertile field
Sprouted roots and then did yield
At least seventy two grains
Of wheat from different strains,
From each in turn, seventy two
Different grains of wheat grew;
And so from one grain of wheat
Its progeny the world replete.

And if a thought can only find
A receptor, a fertile mind
Independently of that mind
Will issue forth without a bind,
And from that one original thought
Many strains will surely sprout;
A thought has a life of its own
It will not die once it is known.
Prophet, poet, every hero
Brought a thought and let it grow
And from that one heroic thought
Its progeny, a new world brought.

© Shahriar Shahriari
Vancouver, Canada
July 26, 1997