Oh, to ponder the profundity of the immortal kernel. From nothing, emerging out of the dew-dappled prairies it rises as merely a sprout, but soon its hardy stalks are foisted towards the heavens. A journey begins.
Under the power of an infernal sun, the dry kernel writhes and dapples—a puckering crescendo. Standing at the precipice of maturity, malevolent threshing orphans the kernel. With barely a husk by which to cling, it awaits its fate.
The ardor of malting. That fickle beast, requires dichotomy: the drying and the absorption of precious water and the cooling and heating of directed winds. The stunted sprout—a tale left unfinished.
A painful twist through the mill. The archaic, grinding mechanisms of a gnaw. A crack, a breaking in two. Stigmata to a sacrificial lamb.
The mash. That baptismal fount from whence the kernel is forever changed. The swirling mists of a bubbling cauldron.
The end glory—that bubbling, aromatic potion that delights the mirthful masses. That golden liquid—a rich luxury. All from but a tiny kernel.