The black seed stirs and rises,
Seeking light as if it were a right.
No sound to mark its rupture
As the roots bare down into ground,
Causing a stir amongst the worms,
Its only sign above an indigo flower
So prized for its taste and perfume
That it beguiles Emperors and sends
Poets into ecstasies of praise.
Only when armies are raised
To go to bloody war for this gewgaw
Is the black seed's work done.
It lives to poison all of mankind
For in that black mass it finds
A most rich and fertile soil:
The hearts and minds of men
For its dark sap to spoil.
© shaun patrick green 2011
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