Migrating birds splat droppings on mud figures lying expressionless on the ground. One man awakens, and tunes in to the words of a poem audible from within the falling matter. The seeds in the bird droppings are made of poetry. The mud people awaken and begin to recite this verse. The man digs a hole with the intention of planting the seed, but falls to the bottom of the hole, as the earth rumbles. There he finds a passage connecting to a time and place in a different dimension, and drawn by the growing sound of gunfire, finds himself in a battleground. A war of past memory looms into view on a screen in mid-air, its light shining on the man. The mud people take on the memories of war shown to them by the seeds. “This is no place to live.” In order to choose the future, they search repeatedly for an alternative way out. Revolutionary “verse” can be heard like tiny breaths of wind in the hole. Through the final exit they arrive at, lilies bloom riotously. The mud people awaken, their hands stretched to the sky, as beautiful as the flowers,  and the air resounds with a rhythmic clapping.