What is the worth of a wild sward that grew with only water from a friendly morning dew? What is it’s worth if the only heaven it’ll ever extend to is up to the soles of your shoe? Bred by no one, uncultivated it stood. Upraised to be hard, outstretched to be rough, cutting its edges was all it was for due. No shelter to shield against the winds that blew or the scorch and dirt of the rain it knew. Every time there was someone who stepped on you, you got back up like the very few I knew. You weren’t called a blade of grass for nothing! Short stalks bend beneath the feet, side lined behind the flowers on the street. But who will tell stories of vigour, they will not know anything of your rigour. The feeling of a wild grass that will live with no worth, dying each day you stained the earth.