The stench of gravel and the roaring of machines,
Turning every old stone into new,
They won't leave, the old strong stones,
Comfortably stuck in their velvet cushioned moss,
Ladybugs and centipedes scurried away from air tight slits,
Tiny minds thought the dark cold stone was home,
Daylight and the gentle breeze,
At first were fire and storm,
With no maps in a lost world they took what came on the way
New stones replaced the old ones, neatly tucked in rows
No slits this time, just the flat flat earth and open space
To enjoy every gift that existed outside
Tiny minds expand, to the gurgling world's flow,
Is this true? Can I trust the gentle breeze and the gurgling world?
The old stones remind us, yes it is another truth,
Never seen or sought in that cold, velvet cushioned moss
