What are I?
Across the expansive green field, morning mist hovering about it, lays it.
No one knows what it is; no one knows where it comes from.
No one knows it value, no one knows its worth. It has no form, no meaning, it just is.
Along with, lays a small, rough stone, it had it grasped in its small hands. And a few words spout from it chapped lips, “What are I?”