Followed from ages; labeled in tradition
Because prison may be an unfair title
Tradition sounds like a cultural procession
Below layers of false smiles
A line of puppets come dancing one after the other
A hand that died long ago is what keeps them moving
No one questions them, no stray thoughts flutter
Sentenced as a definition of what’s right
Unquestioned acceptance is after all what defines character
One who never tried to stray
Is pristine with flourishing golden glitter.
He who dares to raise his voice
Subdued he is by those who say they know better
Who taught you what you know, respectable sirs?
You’re still guided by those dead hands that don’t even a word utter!