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,
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.
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
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.