THEY are treasures of rain
in each and every bowl.
For in a golden grain,
lies a porcelain soul.
A mouthful of gruel,
would be a priceless thing,
these beloved jewels
were fathered by a king—
A lesser kind of lord,
whose land is not his own,
cannot even afford
the very rice he’s grown.
So this I say to you:
Don’t waste your rice my son.
These grains of rice, though few
are prizes to be won.
