​The silvered hands of grandmothers,

In patterns known by heart,

Trace the seams of history

And pull the worlds apart—

Then stitch them back together

With a needle made of grace,

Preserving every story

In the lace of time and space.

​It isn’t just a ritual,

Or a song from long ago;

It’s the anchor in the river

Where the restless currents flow.

A flame passed through the shadows,

Steady, bright, and bold,

Refining all the newness

With the wisdom of the old.

​Tradition is like a bridge between who we were and who we’re becoming @Michael odumuh