When we turn around,
everyday there are more and more tombs
but fewer people get sad.
The flowers on the tomb grow withered,
but no one brings fresh flowers.

One poor poet
sells his bread to buy his sketch paper,
and his child has tears in his eyes,
because he wishes to have a toy.

Our friend, without leaving a will,
jumped off a building.
The psychotic son shot his parents.

Our neighbor became bankrupt,
because he fell victim to a fraud.
His car spun ten times on the freeway.

The thirteen year old girl, who was raped,
sits around and smiles absentmindedly.

Though these things happen,
we have no expression on our faces.
We have decided to turn our backs
from everything besides ourselves.

Our dreams disappear like a mirage.
Our yearning and despair are getting drier.

Identification with tired red eyes
reflected on a rusted mirror,
we just live with pale faces.

The sun is getting cold
and the world is getting darker.
How can we walk so well without light?

We rush to turn the corner of the street.
Under the thin tree-
a little child stands and cries.

from Generation One Point Five