The Drum Remembers
The elders say,
a drum never forgets
the hands that first woke it.
She holds it close,
its skin warm against her palm—
and in the hush between her heartbeats,
She hears the old fire crackle.
Smoke rises in her memory,
voices circle the flames,
and her mother’s song
travels through time
like a hawk’s cry returning home.
Once, the night danced with embers,
and every beat was a prayer—
to the earth,
to the stars,
to the spirit that lives
in all that breathes.
Now, she stands alone,
wrapped in the quiet of remembrance,
and when her hand trembles against the drum,
The ancestors answer:
“We are here, child—
in the rhythm,
in the flame,
in you.”
Art by Serin Alar
The Drum Remembers
The elders say,
a drum never forgets
the hands that first woke it.
She holds it close,
its skin warm against her palm—
and in the hush between her heartbeats,
She hears the old fire crackle.
Smoke rises in her memory,
voices circle the flames,
and her mother’s song
travels through time
like a hawk’s cry returning home.
Once, the night danced with embers,
and every beat was a prayer—
to the earth,
to the stars,
to the spirit that lives
in all that breathes.
Now, she stands alone,
wrapped in the quiet of remembrance,
and when her hand trembles against the drum,
The ancestors answer:
“We are here, child—
in the rhythm,
in the flame,
in you.”
Art by Serin Alar
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