mayawrites

One would be found skipping through field,

Rather than stopping and smelling the roses,

Just to smell their perfume misyield,

And question what their approach is.

They would spend hours weaving cloth,

Spinning strands of jute,

Inhaling hot steam of freshly brewing broth,

As their ancestors follow suit.

But they won’t consume their pride,

Forget tradition at change’s expense,

They would brush the bobbing beauties aside,

In search for gold, bury their common sense.