I see the cars,
we can’t manage them on earth
but we put them on Mars
and call it progress,
if we were honest,
we’d call it the horseman
of the apoc’lypse
but we’re not.
So chronically lie to your children,
tell them there’ll be space to live in
when they’re sixty-four.
For this is the time in which we sing
unsung,
the ladder unrung,
while the rope to the top
has been cut down
by those with mansions in the clouds.
For that was the time in which they lied,
and then is the time in which they’ll die,
while the time we die is now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
while the rope to the top has been cut down by those with mansions in the clouds. nice write