Be like the grasses, which are not waiting, says the sun-whipped god. Always with her partial information. What grasses? What must we go out there and learn about now? The wild grasses— here only of the wind’s accord, happy survivors, rewarded for their ignorance, their         readiness, the seeds that took                                   —are hardly enterprising, and why should they be. Living is a triumph. See them, swaying to music we’ll never hear. Be lucky, they espouse, so helpfully.   So the planted, tended grasses, then? Spoiled, carefree, utterly  incapable, presumably, of boredom — They are not waiting, god,                  because nothing ever happens to them. Look at how easily they live,  forever in their element, positively made for the elements.   To be cultivated  and have played no part in one’s cultivation: How could we                  possibly admire that?  How! Remind us why we listen to this god.    Who even would cultivate us? 

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