When the Drum Speaks

At dusk, the drum remembers the earth.
It's a slow breath rising from the hand and the hide.
Each beat is an ancestor
walking quietly home.

The old ones said:
“Before words, there was rhythm.”

Life was simple then
Fire, water, shared silence.
Feet knew the ground,
Hearts knew where they belonged.

The drum does not call us forward.
It calls us back
to live gently,
to remember.

Art by Serin Alar

🖊Poem: Piahn