What does the wheat know of the bread,
Except to dread;
Though the bread is far ahead,
Wheat calls it dead.
On this matter everything is said,
Put it to bed.
Unless the bread has a message to spread,
A path to tread.
Put not the bread into your mouth, but instead,
Let soul be fed;
Thus transmute your wheat to bread,
Make gold from lead.
If on the path you are bruised, bloody, red,
Just look ahead,
The bread too bled, fire and water baptized its head,
Till fears fled.
© Shahriar Shahriari
May 4, 1999
1998, Vancouver Canada, 1999 - 2005, Los Angeles, CA
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