It's called "Stilts."
The times have raised us up,
And so have those before us.
Our stilts make us stand lanky and awkward,
But able to see all that may kill us below.
We see the traps that ensnared fathers past,
And the mines that detonated on fathers past.
Now we, with our height, step over them,
Yet having been born wearing stilts
Still does not allow us to use them with ease.
We’d love to take strides as our fathers did,
But we stand hesitant,
For more traps,
More mines,
And more boulders
Are liable to ensnare us,
Set us ablaze,
Or trip us,
And a fall from mid heaven
Will surely bruise the face more
Than a fall from six feet from the ground.
We’ve been made to look like circus performers
As our inexperience makes us wobble unsteadily,
And fathers past laugh at us,
But some try to extend a hand.
Our stilts are too tall for us to reach down,
But we’ll grab hold of a reach from the ground -
Only if it’s with love.
* I found it interesting...
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