Some seeds need scorching heat to wake and grow,
they lie asleep in clement rain and sunshine;
while others wake and bloom they surely know
their time will come when all the world is fire.
The fire runs, the front is broad and hot,
white plumes of smoke are billowing and rising,
and as the heat makes ashes of the rot,
no trench can stop the wildfire from flying.
And so the seeds that bide within the earth,
slow and patient, hidden in long slumber;
thick shells crack open now, in time for birth,
beneath the wild inferno, swift like thunder.
And when holocaust is spent and past,
and all the world is silent, dead, and breathless,
small shoots shall pierce the ash awake at last,
green and soft and full of life relentless.