A blade of grass, plucked from the ground,
Many more will make a large pile.
Air blown along makes a sweet sound,
And keeps one busy for a while.
Tied together, many long strands,
Suspended ‘twixt fence and tree.
Lines upon lines of grass ropes affixed,
More tied, and woven between.
Hours pass by…the weaver still weaves,
Until no holes can exist.
A wall of mere grass made strong through ties.
The wall stays strong as a fist.
Strength might not ever be thought,
To belong to anything so thin.
But bound together, no matter the weather,
The wall withstands the fury of sin.
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