It was allowed to be about them glory would be sated
The old men and women grandfathers and grandmothers
The irony is once they got too heavy, neglect awaited
So to practice that good old stoicism they preached to youth
Feasts and wasted food among the building old and new
Among the hopes and envies of those special few
who would plant the trees and come back later
To see if they grew
The wasted food didn't find mouths but found the gutter
Like derision between mouthfuls eternal fussers
My generational curse isn't poverty or illness
Just unrealistic expectation and restlessness
I cannot travel back in time like a God to reprimand the lot
I can only trust that my own resistance troubled them somewhat
That I learn how to coast, embrace the flow embrace the crash
Avoid the feasts, avoid burdening others with my own trash
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário