Value of Traditions

VALUE OF TRADITIONS At the end of that sacrament When everyone else took The bitten path once again I stopped back to pick up Bits and pieces Despite them being of any use, As for the coming generations It was possible to observe One more such ritual With their use, Like in the abandoned farm Sound of hymns hanging in air Scent of burning ambers Scattered in directions, Burning power of left over fires Whatever seemed Part of forgot experiences Of my yonder past I handed them over To my weak shoulder, Blinded by the dazzle of selfishness From among the faceless crowd Surprised looks Happened to fall On this baggage of mine, though But assurance of traditions Being carried Were looming large On the countenance of expectations