Answer:
The stack just might be sent all over. Full of what's new, yet it's nearly obsolete.
Searing 'cross the pitchยญ-black skies, I scream in celebration, Yet moments later, my outburst through, I am naught but imagination.
One by one we fall from heaven down into the depths of past, And our world is ever upturned so that yet some time weโll last.
A harvest sown and reaped on the same day in an unplowed field. Which increases without growing, remains whole though it is eaten within and without. Is useless and yet the staple of nations.
Always old, sometimes new. Never sad, sometimes blue. Never empty, sometimes full. Never pushes, always pulls.
What never gets any wetter no matter how hard it rains?