The people wrapped the seed in a goatskin pouch and passed it from hut to hut,
each voice asking the same thing: “What are you?”
The seed answered only with a tremor of light,
like a heartbeat too shy to speak.
(Continued in quote..)

At last it reached Adaora, the oldest weaver.
Her fingers were thin as broom-straw, yet they carried every story the village had forgotten.
She knelt, pressed the seed against her chest, and whispered:

“If you are Question, then be Answer.
If you are spark, dare to become flame.”