I rolled the parchment.
It stinks of tradition.
I spread the carpet.
To hail the new age.
Still I could sense it.
It refuses to depart.
It still clings to me.
It still stinks…
The spinning memories,
refuse to settle..
It clamours for the outlet.
I embrace the sapling
I am transformed.
The foster child of modernity.
Through my veins flow, the sap
Of my existence…my tradition.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem