A madman, would-be king, a world aflame,
A generation from their duty flies,
Who, elders only in their graying shame,
Will damn you all, your future they despise.
Ill-fated youth, what hope do you expect,
What words of kind sagacity, what boon?
Not this: that Fortune does your star reject,
The golden hour passes swift, and soon
Night falls – such is the poison you are fed.
No happy labor, systems in distress,
Impossible debts: all weigh upon your head;
But even so, with nothing, on you press,
As Fortune kneels before courageous deeds,
The future yours – it's all your spirit needs.
No comments:
Post a Comment