Alas, the worm was blind. Making its way through fertile earth, never meeting a soul, not even its own. Not knowing kith or kin, it didn't seem to bother him as, day by day, he burrowed his tedious way through mulch and mire; heeding not the dark or the cold. Not needing to ask the question that never would tire because it never grew old. He was not simply "you" -- he was "it" who did not exist.
So on and on, as often goes with a worm, it continued the clandestine tryst to turn the soil. It was what he had learned, or was born having known. Was he born -- and born to toil? -- flashed a thought in the dark. Had he not? He never thought to ask it before.
Then suddenly, the worm broke through the crust of ground! It squinted hard into a blinding light, and basked in the shade of a sunflower whose head bowed low with curiosity, and promptly doused the worm with a shower of dew. And all around, he could see -- it saw! A flood of yellow, and of blue -- and also green!
What is "green"? A gorgeous hue -- and instantly he knew. He had been born, like every living thing, it was true! How else could it be, this wondrous view by one so blind who now could see, in a place so blessed? A place he had helped to make!
But he would reason, that it pays to work hard all of your days, and be born into a land of perfect season.