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Poem

The young generation, who believe in dissolution,
promulgating the manifesto
“tradition is the grave of the banality,
only solecism is the quickening of new life…”

yell upholding a flag similar to a bad check
which is unable to secure the needed guarantee for the debt.

They are sycophantic speculators hopping on the bandwagon 
of the time, they are nothing but a product of a certain moment 
of the swinging pendulum, their unfounded thought changes in consonance with the direction and the amplitude of the pendulum.

Although they think highly of themselves, 
they assert themselves as the forerunner of the times,
actually, they are unbridled reckless colts jumping, hopping, 
and running blindly in the wilderness.

They consider heteronomy as a shackle, 
they, therefore, rush to a smithy and heat the shackles to cut it off,
they insist upon autonomy as the beat of the heart,
they, therefore, lay on the cold operating table to cut it open 
to see the inside of the heart bearing an excruciating pain

but they found it full of red and blue blood 
clotted in two atrium and two ventricles, the blood
contaminated with filthy and turbid human minds
which carried on from generations of generations 
of past unchanged.

They try to ascend their thoughts, nonetheless,
above the traditional ones, it’s nothing more than 
a word game, a disgusting prank. 

Are they mad? Though they cannot even jump 
nor have wings, they try to fly,   

ah, poor generation, ill, crooked, lost,
who were not even touched by a drop of Medusa’s
poisonous blood, flap wings imitating Pegasus about to fly.

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