beside the river of words the youngsters stare,
a battle of emotion with no due resolution,
as their own bodies hover on the water’s hair
with nothing but themselves to spare the confusion.

opposite the river of words the elder glare—
the crocodiles they see are no illusion.
they know the young see the beasts there,
and mirror themselves in them with no solution.

the young ignore the elders’ bridge in the air.
their biased perspective is nothing but pollution.
the young are dead in the water—drowned in despair for the older would not accept the nearing revolution.