It is so nice to know,
That I am me,
And not you,
I can do,
What I feel is right,
Instead of what you say,
And if I come to believe,
That what you said was right,
No shame,
For living my way,
It is shallow,
To follow words,
Lazy,
To obey without question,
And many times,
Fear,
Afraid to find the boundary lines myself,
Standing in a black lake,
That’s turning into gray,
I’d prefer you didn’t judge me,
I value your advice,
It certainly won’t help your case,
To sentence me in mine,
Trust is a virtue,
And teachers have their place,
But as a proverb wisely said,
Experience is best.
I understand it’s hard,
To always deal cross-culturally,
Your children are so different,
They change every day,
How can you know what’s relevant?
Please don’t say,
My generation is not deep.
My songs are meaningless,
My books can’t measure up,
To those of long ago,
My clothes are immodest,
My speech has lost the richness,
Of our glorious history.
Ha! I say,
And how? I ask,
Can you come to the conclusion,
That your generation was any better?
If it was, why did it not produce even grander children?
Why could it not stop,
This apparent decline?
Do not blame us,
Or forget,
How you longed for freedom,
And acted out as much as possible.
If our acting out seems worse,
I argue it only takes on different forms,
And our craftsmen rival yours,
Every day,
The grand reflection,
Of God I see in us,
Great beauty is wrought,
Throughout the earth,
And if evil is increased,
It is only because,
The number of men has grown.
Everything,
In greater scale.