We create tradition and nurse it gently

Today it is mature and the roles reversed

We are the children, cradled tenderly

In the arms of custom we lie

Wrapped in the blanket of ennui

Our slumber is the damnation of sense

So chronic is this infantilism

That we are loath to be awakened

The clamour of a tempest rattles our sleep

Eyes move to express muffled empathy

Only to close again

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