Quietly, head ahead, walk away,
vines will cover the wrecked path,
sensing the spite of endless wrath,
silence swallows, despite our cries,
the unnameable calls for warmth.
Where are you, human condition?
Here, here, so lost, here tradition
holds your narrow vision as a lath.
How many more foes do we need
to realize that a narrow vision
is what that truly makes us bleed?
No foe, break the lath, envision
the horizon that has been freed
from the ties of a dim tradition,
only the weak of spirit enforce
that which is meant to be free
from deadly ties, a bounded mind,
from empty lies, tradition's cries.
The price of tradition is your own will, your mind’s freedom. Instead of blindly following a certain point of view, why don’t you question yourself if such tradition leads you to love or fear? If it takes you closer to fear, what is the point of living in fear? Why do you choose to follow such path if there is no love in it? What is the purpose of being bounded to tradition if you can’t experience the fullest, being yourself?