You ask me to share your pain, // calling it suffering.
Accuse me of being cold-blooded,
With no heart for people and pain.
Simply, I don't want to wade into your muddy river, // again.
To be infused by your stale demands, // decayed,
Into the blood of the young, // to keep outdated ideologies burning,
Speaking grand words that haven't // left your mouth in decades,
Your world,
Pushed to the margins by others, // beneath a broken sky.

Young blood has its own thoughts, // even while living in your world,
Only daring to whisper at doorways, // in deep night,
Or when no one is watching,
To breathe life into their own dreams.
Reaching toward the young only burns you.

Don't be afraid —
Your experience is already buried // in the soil,
From which they cultivate hope:
Young blood, repairing what remains,
Mending the broken sky.

You claim it's for freedom and peace, // for their sake,
But they no longer belong to you.
In their world, be silent, let go.

It's time to sleep, // to return to your own dreams.
There's no reason,
To mix with the blood // of the young.
You are not them, nor are you us.