Gaping through the darkness,
Guided by the dim lit moonlight hue;
Enchained and isolated in solemn solidarity,
On the crossroads,
Of traditions, old and new.
I knew where to begin,
But I know not,
Where is the end!
But for the elder’s content;
To like the aims they chose,
I tried hard to pretend.
I worked hard,
Day and night;
Through the hours,
Past the overtime.
For every penny I earned,
With an ounce of happiness I paid;
So by the time I had success,
I rather lamented on following,
What the elders said.
But now, it’s too late!
For the elders have gone,
And their words have faded;
Leaving me stuck with wads of notes,
Desperate,
For the happiness which I traded.
–Ishaan Phukan
Libëranté. 