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“How sad, however, if we're given Our youth as something to betray, And what if youth in turn is driven To cheat on us, each hour, each day, If our most precious aspirations, Our freshest dreams, imaginations In fast succession have decayed, As leaves, in putrid autumn, fade. It is too much to see before one Nothing but dinners in a row, Behind the seemly crowd to go, Regarding life as mere decorum, Having no common views to share, Nor passions that one might declare.” — Alexander Pushkin
How sad, however, if we're given
Our youth as something to betray,
And what if youth in turn is driven
To cheat on us, each hour, each day,
If our most precious aspirations,
Our freshest dreams, imaginations
In fast succession have decayed,
As leaves, in putrid autumn, fade.
It is too much to see before one
Nothing but dinners in a row,
Behind the seemly crowd to go,
Regarding life as mere decorum,
Having no common views to share,
Nor passions that one might declare.