Desta and the Coffee Seeds

High in the mountains of Ethiopia, where the air is thin and sweet,
Where coffee plants grow wild and strong, and terraced fields are neat,
There lived a girl named Desta, bright, with laughter in her voice,
Who’d learn that kindness, small and true, can be the finest choice.

Her father worked the coffee trees, her mother spun the thread,
Her brothers helped with harvesting while Desta baked the bread.
They lived up in the highlands where the ancient churches stood,
Where priests in robes would chant and pray, and life was simple, good.

Now Desta had a treasure small, a secret place she’d keep—
A handful of the finest seeds, where coffee plants would sleep.
Her father said, “These seeds are rare, from trees that grow so well.
plant these when you are older, child, and stories you will tell.

These came from ancient bushes that my father’s father grew,
Passed down through generations to be given now to you.
They carry all our history, our struggles and our pride,
The legacy of farmers who have lived and loved and died.”

They were the finest seeds around, from coffee trees so grand,
That grew the sweetest berries known throughout the highland land.
The beans they produced were sought after, traded far and wide,
Dark and rich and fragrant, Ethiopia’s ancient pride.

Desta kept them in a pouch she wore, close to her young heart,
Sewn from leather soft and worn, a treasure set apart.
And dreamed of her own coffee grove, where trees would stretch so tall,
Her future’s perfect start, her destiny, her all.

One morning in the market square, where vendors called their wares,
Where spices filled the morning air and merchants climbed the stairs,
Desta saw an old, old woman, bent and worn with age,
Who sat beside an empty stall, like words on an empty page.

The woman’s eyes were clouded white, her hands were thin and cold,
Her clothes were patched and patched again, her story plainly told.
She had no goods to sell that day, no food to take back home,
Just sitting in the marketplace, forgotten and alone.

Desta stopped and watched her there, while others passed her by,
Busy people, rushing past, who never caught her eye.
And something stirred in Desta’s heart, a feeling warm and bright—
A whisper saying, “Help her now, and you will do what’s right.”

But Desta had so little too! Just bread she’d made that morn,
Some butter wrapped in leaves so green, some teff grain from the corn.
Not much to give, not much at all, for just a girl so young,
But kindness doesn’t measure worth by treasure or by tongue.

She walked up to the woman there and spoke in gentle tone,
“Grandmother, I have brought you food. Please, you’re not alone.”
The old woman’s face lit up with joy, though she could barely see,
“Bless you, child! May angels guard you, may you blessed be!”

Desta gave her bread and butter, stayed to keep her company,
And listened to her stories of the way things used to be.
The old woman told of younger days when she had owned a farm,
Before a drought had taken all, before she’d come to harm.

“I used to grow such coffee beans,” the old woman said with pride,
“The finest in the mountains here, before the trees all died.
I wish I could start over, but I’m old and have no seed,
No land, no strength, no help at all—I have just one more need:

To see just one more sunrise bright above my village home,
To know that I have mattered here, that I have not died alone.”

Desta felt tears prick her eyes, her heart was moved so deep,
And then she felt the pouch she wore, the treasure she would keep.
Those precious seeds her father gave, her future in that bag—
But here before her sat a soul whose hope was but a rag.

What happened next came naturally, without a moment’s thought,
For kindness isn’t calculated, sold, or ever bought.
Desta reached into her pouch and pulled the coffee seeds,
And placed them in the old woman’s hands, to answer deeper needs.

“Here, Grandmother,” Desta said, “please take these seeds from me.
They’re from the finest coffee trees that you will ever see.
I know you say you’re old and weak, but seeds are full of hope,
And maybe someone you know well could help you plant and cope.”

The old woman gasped and held the seeds, and tears rolled down her face,
“But child, these are so precious! Seeds like these are rare!
You should keep them for yourself, for your own future’s grace!”

But Desta simply smiled and said, “I know you’ll use them fair.”

The old woman clutched those seeds so tight, as if they were pure gold,
And blessed young Desta many times in ways both new and old.
She called upon the saints above, the angels in the sky,
To watch this child who’d shown such heart to help one such as I.

Desta walked home lighter though she’d given much away,
Her pouch was empty, seeds were gone, but joy had filled her day.
Her mother asked, “Where are the seeds your father gave to you?”
And Desta told the story through, explained what she must do.

Her father listened quietly, then nodded with a smile,
“You did a kindness, daughter dear, a deed of selfless style.
Those seeds will grow in better soil than any we could find—
The soil of need, the soil of hope, the soil of hearts aligned.”

Now here’s where magic enters in, as happens now and then,
When kindness plants its seeds of love in hearts of fellow men.
The old woman had a grandson who lived in village near,
A young man strong and capable, whom she held very dear.

She gave those precious seeds to him and told him Desta’s tale,
How a young girl gave her treasure up to help someone so frail.
The grandson planted every seed with care and tears and prayer,
And tended them through sun and rain with dedicated care.

The seasons turned, as seasons do, from planting time to growing,
Through rainy months and sunshine bright, the grandson’s care was showing.
The coffee trees sprouted strong and tall, their berries bright and glowing,
Each branch a testament to love, each leaf a sign of knowing.

They grew into the finest crop that anyone had seen,
With berries red and full and sweet, and leaves of richest green.
The yield was more abundant than any crop around,
As if the seeds remembered love and blessed the giving ground.

The grandson picked the berries ripe, with reverence and care,
Dried them in the mountain sun, their fragrance filled the air.
He roasted them with practiced skill, the ancient, sacred way,
That Ethiopian farmers had perfected through the day.

The grandson sold the coffee beans throughout the mountain lands,
To merchants in the valleys and to traders from far strands.
The money came back plentiful, beyond what he had planned,
More wealth than he had dreamed could come from just a small bag’s land.

He shared it with his grandmother, who wept with grateful heart,
For she had thought her days were done, her life torn apart.
And remembered that young girl who’d given her a start,
Whose kindness like a healing balm had mended broken parts.

But kindness doesn’t end there, no, it circles round and round,
Like water flowing down the hills, like echo making sound.
The grandson came to Desta’s home, with gratitude to pay,
He brought her coffee seeds again—but more this time, I’d say!

A hundred seeds he gave to her, from trees so strong and fine,
The children of the seeds she’d given at the marketplace’s shrine.
“These seeds are yours,” he told her clear, “your kindness made them grow.
What you gave away in mercy has returned tenfold, you know.”

But more than that, the old woman sent a message too,
Written by the priest in ink of darkest blue:
“Dear child who showed me kindness when I had nowhere to turn,
You taught me that compassion’s light will always brightly burn.

You gave when you had little, shared your treasure without fear,
And showed me that there’s goodness still, that angels do live here.
You changed my life with one small act, one gesture pure and true,
And now I pray that blessings rain forever down on you.”

Desta planted all those seeds, and they grew into great trees,
That gave her family coffee beans to sell beyond the seas.
But more than wealth, more than success, more than any treasure gained,
Desta learned a lesson deep that in her heart remained:

That kindness doesn’t count the cost, doesn’t measure or compare,
Doesn’t ask for gold in return, or riches beyond compare.
That small acts of compassion can change someone’s whole life,
Can bring hope to the hopeless, can end another’s strife.

So now when you’re out walking, on whatever road you’re on,
And see someone who’s struggling, who seems so far withdrawn,
Remember Desta’s story here, remember what she knew:
That small acts of kindness can change lives—including you.

For kindness grows like coffee trees, from seeds so small and slight,
Into something beautiful that reaches toward the light.
And what you give away in love comes back in ways untold,
In blessings, joy, and happiness worth more than any gold.

High in the mountains of Ethiopia, where the air is thin and sweet,
Where coffee plants grow wild and strong, and kindness is complete,
They tell the tale of Desta still, the girl who understood
That small acts of compassion are the greatest kind of good.