Little silent rock
that sits on the road
a thousand waves hit it,
but it still remains - a little
silent rock.
The rains then fall
and it is washed and cleansed
perhaps soiled in mud
or flow to the drain. Yet it is - a
little silent rock.
Should it be so bearing -
oh trust me, I believe he should not
but that is his pleasure in living
cuz he grows every time he is hit -
the little silent rock.
It is picked by hands, maybe
to be thrown in puddles
or is broken, its exterior shattered
but what comes out is soil that lives- no longer
a little silent rock.
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