E. Shaun Russell
A rhythmic pulse beats hard against the night—
Each tribal thrum sends shivers through the land;
A voice, then two, joins in to make a band
That plies the edge between dread and delight.
The flash of gleaming teeth by firelight,
The stamp of weathered feet upon the sand,
Have depths no civil man can understand
Nor ever will, try vainly as he might.
Before our race became what we’ve become,
We all possessed the knowledge in our blood
Of how to live the music of the earth,
And sing it through with voices and with drum;
Someday it shall reclaim us in a flood,
And show us once again what we are worth.