The rock echoed “I made it.”
The water welcomed the heaviness.
The stone with rough edges
found its home.
Then all that was needed were
gifts found in the cracks
between the in between.
And from those who no longer create
great music, but write secret code found
in books that no one sees.
Some came from where the sun burns paper.
Where soon there will be only deserts
and libraries without books..
With courage, the soup spoke its truth.
In the flux of change
it was only the hungry that ate.