Who accused the lethargic generation,
Being as lifeless as their thoughts.
Who doubted the power of pure slothfulness?
Who laid the barriers of perfection,
For the idle and inactive.
Who said that we were the destructive,
If we are accused of being lackadaisical,
It is only because our many thoughts are suppressed by infinite rushes of meaningless phrases.
And so, we are broken and shattered like million shards of glass.
These very shards are picked up and used against us so that our image will forever be deformed,
As our words have been.
Our pain is the one no-one understood,
Our pain was expressed through the dying voices of the last survivors of blasé.
And whispers only echo in graves of the pococurantes.
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