Meditation is poetry, author Lermontov
I look at our generation sadly!
The future is either bleak or uncertain.
Searching for life without understanding it is like a heavy burden.
It will make people grow old in inaction.
We have just stepped out of the cradle and we have seen enough
The faults of our ancestors and their late enlightenment,
Life is boring, just like the happiness of his family. A feast is like running on a flat and vast journey.
It’s so shameful that we are indifferent to good and evil.
If we don’t fight, we will retreat when we first enter the stage of life.
We are so cowardly in the face of danger. Shame,
In front of power, we are a group of despicable slaves.
It is like a premature and shriveled wild fruit...
It cannot appetize and nourish people, nor is it pleasing to the eye.
It looks like a fruit among flowers. An unaccompanied stranger,
It is the time for it to wither in the season of beauty!
We exhaust our minds on useless knowledge,
we also jealously hide it from our relatives and friends,
refuse to tell the beautiful hopes of our hearts
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And noble passions that are subject to skepticism and ridicule.
Our mouths have just touched the cup of enjoyment,
but we cannot preserve the power of youth;
Although we are afraid of getting bored, every time we are happy, ,
We always drink its nectar in one gulp.
The imaginative thoughts of poetry and the treasures of art,
cannot break our hearts even with intoxicating passion;
We desperately want to keep what is left in our hearts Feelings——
Useless treasures buried by stingy feelings.
Sometimes we love, sometimes we hate,
But no matter for love or hate, we are unwilling to make sacrifices,
Whenever a ball of fire burns in the blood vessels There is a burning fire inside,
There is always an inexplicable coldness dominating the soul.
We are tired of the luxurious entertainment of our ancestors,
Tired of their sincere and innocent debauchery;
We rush to the grave without experiencing happiness and honor. ,
Looking back frequently with a mocking expression.
We, a group of melancholy people who will be forgotten,
will pass through the world without a trace,
leaving nothing useful to future generations. Thoughts,
Not a single work written by a genius was left behind.
Our descendants will use the iron face of judges and citizens,
humiliate our bones with contemptuous poems,
They will act like a deceived Son,
sharply sarcastic towards his bankrupt father.