A seed of grass fled
Flown by the wind far away from its home
A seed of grass landed to the soil
It grew with rain and pain
A seed of grass felt lonely
The tears it shed nobody is fed
A seed of grass cried for the motherland
A motherland who always pray every day and night
For the day when she sees
A seed become grass
So it won’t be alone again…
A metaphor poetry written by my father about, err, well, his daughter, which is umm…me. His talent in metaphorically describing things that are completely different reminds me of what I read from “Aristotle: The Poetics”
The greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor. It is the one thing that cannot be learned from others; it is also a sign of genius, since a good metaphor implies an eye for resemblance.
-Aristotle, De Poetica, 322 B.C.