You are sounding like a trovador now. Very musical composition. Quite appropriate for a story of travelers and seed throwers who are supposed to be themselves the accumulation of seasons of good seeding.

Time well spent/used is supposed to reward those who put it to good use. Lessons learned should mean fewer errors upheld.
The unweaving of a harp suggests the undoing of a musical fabric. But it may also suggest, by the very process of deconstruction of its constitutive parts, the unchaining of what is fastened or fixed. That liberating sense plays along with the feeling of rhythmic precipitousness in this composition.

The scattering in changeless isles make me think of religion, farming and some gifts from nature that provide messages of good and bad timing. The pews inhabited by monotony and conformism (resignation disguised as faith?); the rows that receive the seeds intended and others brought by the wind, watered by independent clouds and illumined by “waves [of colors] unseen” by the common eye.

Mountain ranges, crevices and rocks map the lessons still unlearned, just discovered by travelers “unraveling heart-torn gem”, ringing the bells of wholeness, crossing the luminal spaces of the known and the unknown.
Thus, the new troubadours sing about the solved and unsolved mysteries of the world spreading new seeds on unfertile rows, ringing harp notes that sound disconnected to the changeless ear.