In the shadows of history’s silent keep,
Lies a custom ancient, in sorrow deep,
The practice of Ubasute, a tale so grim,
Revealed after a millennium, fears within.

A tradition cruel, born of hardship’s seed,
Leaving mothers to die alone in need,
Exposed after a thousand years of night,
A chilling truth unveiled in the ancient light.

I’m terrified at the revelation’s stark,
The weight of this knowledge, a heavy mark,
Ubasute’s sorrow, a haunting refrain,
Mothers abandoned to endure the pain.

In the mountains’ embrace, a solemn call,
To sacrifice the elderly, mothers fall,
A practice shrouded in tradition’s name,
Leaving hearts heavy with grief and shame.

The echoes of history’s chilling past,
Revealing a custom that was meant to last,
Mothers left to face the mountain’s cold,
In the tales of Ubasute’s story old.

I tremble at the thought of their despair,
Left to perish, alone in the mountain’s lair,
A practice cruel, a tradition grim,
Exposing a truth that makes senses dim.

After a thousand years, the veil is torn,
Ubasute’s legacy, a sorrow borne,
I’m terrified at the weight it brings,
A custom ancient with chilling wings.

May this revelation sow seeds of change,
In the hearts of all who find it strange,
Ubasute’s practice, a history to heed,
A chilling truth uncovered, a call to heed.