There are none of our traditions here
The ancestors rattle in the mourning stones
Apart from the common Gebrauch
Sung loudly by minions on thrones
The woman cannot understand
What the words might possibly hold
But she walks by the thrones on the hilltop
Paying homage to secrets untold
The Gebrauch is spoken in tongues
But everyone knows they aren’t blessed
They are simply the moanings of ancients
Who mold time and live on in their breasts
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