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.

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