Trapped to rehearse and perfect practices,
To satisfy a doing with a purpose unclear.
Since the doing in an atmosphere,
Has made such practices...
Scrutinized to be questioned,
By those unsure of a reason that fades.
Yet a fearing to let them go,
To welcome an unknown left unexplained...
Makes for the necessity of changes,
A process of growth...
Too foreign to fathom.
And too complex,
For those preferring nostalgic glances,
With demands for them to come alive...
Repeatedly before their accepting eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem