We Are the Generation That Isn’t Coming Back

We are the last of the unhurried, The children of calloused hands, Born before screens cast their glow Across these restless lands. We knew the weight of emptiness; Empty pockets, empty rooms, Yet somehow we were filled With more than all these modern blooms. Our wealth was measured differently: In conversations on front steps, In bicycle wheels spinning freedom Down streets where twilight crept. Dinner tables held us captive With stories, not with glowing light, And love was spelled in mended clothes And porch lamps burning bright. We are the children of “make do,” Of letters sealed with care, Of neighbors knowing neighbors’ names And burdens they could share. No locks upon our doors, No walls around our hearts; We lived in open spaces Before the world grew apart. But time has swept us forward Into this electric age, Where faster means better And noise drowns wisdom’s page. The quiet we once treasured Has been swallowed by the roar Of progress that forgot to ask What we were progressing for. Yet in our memories linger The truths we learned by heart: That joy needs no device, That love is lived, not art. That family gathered ‘round a table Is worth more than gold, And simple moments, freely given, Are the richest stories told. We may be the last to remember When enough was truly enough, When happiness wasn’t purchased But found in smaller stuff. The world may never slow again To match our steady pace, But perhaps someone, somewhere, Will remember what we faced; And choose the wealth of presence Over the poverty of speed, The richness of connection Over what we think we need. We are the generation That isn’t coming back, But in our wake, we leave The things this world now lacks.