The soil is always the same; made up entirely of the corpses of uncountable bodies. These have lived and fed upon each other and died and rotted down and been digested into soil.
Each body is a life in which the experiences of becoming, the sangsara, are tested and its sweet and bitter fruit digested. All is recorded on a timetrack which has neither beginning nor ending. Each body is the fruit of its past. Each fruit spills out its seed (murmuring "please some more!") into the soil (which is always the same).
Same soil. Different seeds.
The splendour of a hundred kings
fades like the bloom on a butterfly’s wings.
The meanest flower that blows
goes the same way the forest goes.
All is consumed by worm or fire;
nothing needs building any higher.
The rattling of teeth within the jaw
mocks the tongue murmuring:
“Please, some more!”
NEW PROJECT: LISTEN