I was born when the fields stood tall, Heavy heads in the amber sprawl. Wind bent low through the turning earth, Carrying songs of a quiet worth. Hands were calloused before I knew What it meant to see things through But the soil spoke soft and plain: “You are made of sun and grain.” Every root runs deep in time, Every harvest costs its climb Nothing grows without the weight Of what we tend and what we take. I am grainborn, I was made To stand in wind, to bow, not break. To feed the hands that came before, And those who’ll walk this path once more. If I am worn, if I am tried… Let me be bread when I am ground. For every end the field has known Is just another life grown round. There’s a rhythm in the scythe’s slow arc, A sacred hush when the sky turns dark. We gather close what the year has made, In golden dust and shadowed shade. And though the stalk must fall away, It feeds the dawn of another day. Nothing here is lost in vain, Not in the keeping of the grain. Every loss becomes the seed, Every hunger shapes the need. What we give is what remains, Folded in the fields of change. I am grainborn, I was made To stand in wind, to bow, not break. To feed the hands that came before, And those who’ll walk this path once more. If I am worn, if I am tried… Let me be bread when I am ground. For every end the field has known Is just another life grown round. Lay me down in loam and light, Turn me through the day and night. If I must break to make things whole, Then let that be the work I hold. I am grainborn, I will stay In every loaf and field of hay. In every hand that sows again, I’ll rise back up through root and stem. If I am spent, if I am sown… Let me return as something known. For what we give is never gone… It lives in all that carries on.
