The naive child longs for peace;
The knowing adult smiles in condescension.
The dreamer in the flowers hopes
For that which realists know can’t be.
And all the wisdom of each age
Says what goes and what falls flat
And takes the pin to all fond hopes,
Bubbles burst with age and growth.
And progress fails; the god we hailed
Takes a taxi to the coast,
While somehow all our inner children
Kick against our walls’ best efforts
To contain our foolishness.
There is no reason, only this:
The deep-as-blood conviction that
None of this was meant to be.
And every century will try to
Change the topic or deny
That there ever was a problem;
And our hands can’t really be joined
While we let them hold to lies;
Yet this beacon glimmers with us –
That we should put down our struggles
And be reconciled, like children.