Voices resound on stone, and trumpet through abandoned pipes.
A hum, a howl, a half-remembered hymn—
Sticks whack PVC pipes, the sound swallowed and reshaped.
Somewhere, a songbird forgets its own tune.
Somewhere, a coyote grins in the dark.
A card is flipped, a role is claimed.
Sing low enough, and the walls might sing back.
Step inside. You might just hear your own voice waiting.Human skin against goat skin. Who leads, who follows?
Rhythm is a language, but who speaks it best—the swirling hand or the desert wind?
My friend Rasha taught me Egyptian rhythms beneath the stars.
We sync, I lose the thread, we laugh. But the stars keep time, and the drums keep calling us back.
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