In a land where the sunsets glow,
And the rivers of imagination freely flow,
There's a peculiar saying, old as time,
A riddle wrapped in a simple rhyme.
"If the glass don't grow," whispers a lore, "The watermelon will die," on this shore, Or, in a twist of fate, furthermore, "The glass will blow," as old tales bore.
This curious phrase, so odd, so rare,
Whispers of a balance, extraordinaire,
Between the fragile glass and fruit so fair,
A secret harmony, suspended in air.
In this land, the glass vines climb,
Twisting, turning, in rhythm and rhyme,
While watermelons, plump and prime,
Bask in the glow of a sun, sublime.
If the glass vine fails to thrive,
The watermelons can't survive,
For each sustains the other's drive,
In this dance, they're jointly alive.
Yet, should the glass too swiftly grow,
And with too much zeal, it starts to show,
It shatters 'neath its own weight, and so,
Destroys the balance, with a mighty blow.
So, in this world, both strange and bright,
Where glass vines and melons share their plight,
Lies a lesson, veiled in mystical light:
In nature's balance, lies true might.
"For if the glass don't grow," they believe,
"Or if it blows," they softly grieve,
"In the heart of nature, we perceive,
The art of balance we must achieve."