The old ways whisper in the wind,The old ways whisper in the wind,
Soft but steady, bold yet thin.
Like echoes carved in ancient stone,
They live in us—we’re never alone.
A mother’s call at break of dawn,
The scent of rain on thirsty corn.
Wood smoke curling, voices bright,
Stories told by lantern light.
We walked with care, with heads held high,
Knew when to bow, knew when to try.
Not all was perfect, not all was right,
But wisdom danced in simple life.
The touch of thread, the work of hands,
The hum of trade across the lands.
Fruits in baskets, yam in piles,
Laughter stretching miles and miles.
The old ways live, they do not fade,
They shape the new, they hold the blade.
Trends will rise and crash like waves,
Yet roots remain—strong and brave.
For when the screens all dim to black,
And silence calls the voices back,
It’s in the past we’ll find our way,
And weave tomorrow from yesterday.