By Rabia Ghias
The evening lanterns form a congregation of heavenly lights
Their luminescence erases the uncertainty of the desolate, doleful nights
Our traditions, our values, the very core of our beings, are tucked away in the tiny pockets of the countryside
Jeweled trinkets, dangling on the willowy branches, highlight the past of their stride
Their struggle, marked with their scarlet blood, paint the path on the beaten dirt.
The tragedies and victories they witnessed record a volume in our lineage, even if we all divert.
Here we lay, like ignorant pigs, hogging the fruits of their labor.
Our mundane, murky lives are parasites off the foundation they created.
We simply hang their laurels, tainted by the elements of time, marking the vestiges from before.
The vermilion passage, indicative of our blossoming triumphs and endeavors, has long been abated.
