tradition
is the wound we press against
when everything else breaks apart
but now
we unravel it, thread by thread
as if its weight
is too heavy to carry
we call chaos
progress dressed in louder words
a room of voices screaming
but no one
asks the children what they learned
we turn from the stories
written before our bodies were born
rejecting their wisdom
because their roots intertwine with soil
older than we care to trust
religion whispers
in the cracks of silence
yet we drown it out
because tradition feels like
chains instead of hands
the oceans of difference
ripple in gender, in belief
breaking boxes we have built
but forgetting
why those boxes ever held us
somewhere above the noise
the earth waits—
patient, quiet
holding the traditions we threw away.