a Great poem by Sasha Cherny, reflecting the psychology of generations past and some of today's citizens.

Our ancestors climbed in the cage

And whispering there more than once:

"Tight, brothers... seen the children

Will live freer us."

the Children grew up. And these

Climb in the stand in the hour

And sighed: "Our children

will Meet the sun after us."

Today as well as forever,

one Consolation:

Our kids will be in Mecca

If we are not meant to be.

Even the timing of predicted:

two hundred years, who's five hundred

And yet lie in grief

And shake your head like an idiot.

Painted Dooley

the World is washed, combed, sweet.

through two hundred Years? The devil in the chair.

Unless I am Methuselah?

I like the owl on the ruins

Broken gods.

In unborn descendants

I have No brothers and enemies.

I want a little light

For myself, while I'm alive,

From the tailor to the poet -

All clear my call...

And the children... May the descendants

Performing a lot

cursing your darkness,

Beating the wall with his head!

Let's live in the Here and now, you see, and our descendants will get more.

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