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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=464237" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Collective Grave Of Traditions</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have journeyed a long way, <br>On never ending <br>Route of time <br>I have left far behind<br>My youth time, <br>And moments mixed <br>Bitter and sweet, <br>Mild and harsh.<br>I remember the sturdy <br>Village folk, <br>Men and women <br>Of the past years, <br>With whom I worked <br>In my childhood, <br>When came back <br>After the school hours.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the month of May, <br>Beneath the hot sun, <br>They thrashed wheat <br>With yokes of oxen, <br>To change straw <br>Into heap of hay, <br>And separate <br>Grain from the silage, <br>With rural instruments: <br>Flails and rakes.<br>Whole the day <br>We moved, move around, <br>Catching cord <br>Of the inner ox of each yoke, <br>All the time <br>Pulling them inward, <br>Lest they should break <br>And go astray, <br>Behind them they dragged <br>Rough whoopers, <br>Made of bushes <br>Inter-twined with grass or straw.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The muscular farmers <br>Raked the circle of trodden straw, <br>Time and again, <br>The old women brought meals twice: <br>One at the noon <br>And the other afternoon, <br>And we all ate with a profound relish; <br>The taste that the meals gave, <br>Never was found <br>Even at the five star-hotels.<br>When evening befell <br>We all gathered hay, in longitude<br>Like a collective golden grave, <br>And at night we all assembled <br>For the great feast at farmer’s house<br>Whose wheat was thrashed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now I go through years <br>Of the mechanical age, <br>And no one is alive <br>Among those men and women, <br>When I sit alone, <br>The memory of those moments, <br>Stings me like tingles <br>Of the golden snakes, <br>I often recall brawny village folk, <br>With the invisible eyes <br>See them working, in the gain-yard<br>With turbans on their heads, <br>Rakes and flails in hands <br>Or on their shoulders, <br>I also see my mother, <br>At a the distance, bringing<br>Contents of meal on her head, <br>My appetite begins to grow, <br>And mouth begins to snivel, <br>I see them all making <br>A grave-like heap of hay, <br>In the grain-yard as if they make<br>A collective grave of traditions.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Muhammad+Shanazar">Muhammad Shanazar</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=464237" data-title="A Collective Grave Of Traditions de Muhammad Shanazar" data-description="I have journeyed a long way, 
On never ending 
Route of time 
I have left far behind
My youth time, 
And moments mixed 
Bitter and sweet, 
Mild and harsh.
I remember the sturdy 
Village folk, 
Men and women 
Of the past years, 
With whom I worked ..."></div>
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