A grain of wheat dies if it doesn't fall into the ground. If you die, you will bear many seeds.
So I posted this poem, "If the seeds don't die" by Gomel:
If the seeds don't die, they will leave
many things with unfinished fruits in the past in the soil
These living objects under the stratum, like some
ancient hatred, slowly gather in one place
These seeds live underground. Like
pillars full of bullets buried by alchemists in the living room
and we live above the hall
We never pay attention to the trace that our feet are about to move
The seeds are underground, like bones filled with the edge of the graveyard
They are each tied with a white belt. Gazing with dignity
is like some giant ants forgotten by surgeons in a giant's mind
They are waving tiny claws and scratching hard
And the fruits on the earth will not feel the slight vibration from below even when they are ripe
The mind cultivated by God day after day in their bodies
will eventually be dashed in a long-simmering danger.