Little pebbles will tumble down little hills–

Little pebbles will tumble down little hills–
days will pass while these beings are made,
grown between silt and sand

Made continuous, foreign, and jagged, 
smoothed by time and love, compassion
A being made of rock, of sorts, 
A being made to certain fashion

We may not absorb even a quantum of such change–
we may never see it, and for that, I worry–
For new souls, I'm sure, the days will change, the lights
will turn, a color of uncertain hue 

We may never understand–
Never experience
                  And will we ever feel 
But for your ignorance, I am grateful to
I cannot guess what knowledge would do