Far to the horizon those rows of flower and dirt. Far off they go to sell one day when the price has become right.
And when at last the price is good and the harvest is done with care, then many a coin will be used to feed and sow the fields next year.
But the price of a meal grows higher, for flesh, for root and more. So ever so much more coin is spent from what the flowers made.
A race between the profit and harvest ensues and grows with every year, though it takes no enlightenment to see the troubles made.
If only food was held in a regard much higher to pretty things, then the fields would be filled with food and grazing animals for slaughter.
But instead the petals hold delight, and the cost for food goes up. Together with the forest, the fruitful vanish, made evermore barren to pretty things.
A prompt response.