An idea that has gone unseized
Is a forest without any trees.
It exists as a ghost
With no one to host
Lost like a breath to the breeze.
An idea that rests in the hand
Is a seed to be sown in the land.
As a sprout it will grow
With a spark melting snow
Shone brightly from your lantern of gold.
Soon trees will dawn
Bark thick and of brawn
A forest built to be old.