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
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