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The cry of a new-born child Gasping for air and attention The mother’s lifting, her soothing pat, Her words will still be the same A hundred years down the road. The stretch of childhood, the slowly passing years, The wish to age and be allowed Those grown-up things will be the same A hundred years down the road. The wakening of the flesh, the clash With fathers and mothers, the struggle To find one’s place will be the same A hundred years down the road. The things we do, the way we live Will move with the world around us. But the air we breathe, the space still there Will have changed and changed utterly A hundred years down the road. |
