Fake as menever

The slow turning of the earth beneath our feet,
a rhythm unnoticed by the hurried young.
They chase the sunrise with frantic steps,
believing every horizon new,
unblemished by the dust of yesterday.

Wisdom of the old,
it sits like river stones,
smoothed by countless flows,
the weight of seasons settled deep.
It whispers in the silence after a storm,
a knowledge not learned from a screen,
but etched by error, by persistence, by sheerstubborn survival.
They speak of futures that arrived exactlyas they feared, or sometimes,
with a tenderness they never dared to hope for.

Heard of the young,
their voices sharp, piercing the comfortable humof what has always been.
They bring the fire, the urge to dismantle,
to rebuild the scaffolding of beliefthat seemed so solid to their grandparents.
They carry the weight of immediacy,
a world compressed into a glowing rectangle,
demanding change now, not when the elders deem it fit.
Their questions are hammers, testing the weak points,
their energy a dazzling, sometimes careless, light.

And the knowledge of the present,
this rushing river where all waters meet.
It is the instant answer, the global hum,
the connection that spans oceans faster than a sigh.
It is vast, overwhelming, a library without walls,
yet often lacking the binding glue of context,
the patient tracing of a single, vital line.

The old man nods, his eyes half-closed,
remembering the first time he saw a photograph move,
marveling at the child holding the device that holds the world.
The young woman sighs, tapping impatiently,
frustrated by the slow unfolding of established systems.

They stand on the same patch of ground,
breathing the same thin air,
but inhabiting different timelines.

The wisdom is the memory of the mud,
the hearing is the insistence on the speed,
the knowledge is the current map.

And when the three perspectives collide,
when the elder’s caution brushes the youth’s zeal,
and the present moment floods them both with data—
the only truth that anchors,
the only phrase that holds the line steady:

It is what it is.

Not resignation, perhaps,
but the quiet acceptance of consequence.
The sun will rise whether you are ready or not.
The flood will come following the rain.
The technology will advance regardless of our comfort.

It is the bedrock beneath the argument,
the simple, unadorned fact of existence.
The past cannot be undone,
the future cannot be perfectly controlled,
and this breath, this second, this unfolding now,
is utterly itself.
The confluence settles.
The stones remain.
The new voices fade slightly into the background hum.
It is what it is.
And in that acceptance,
a strange, undeniable peace is found.

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