It sounds like a drum. Not a vibrant deep sound, nor sharp tremblings. Its slow. Its quiet. Its strong. And it speaks. It speaks of a passing dream. Images of gold and rivers of freedom. Fields untamed found in the breath of the sun. The drum sounds under the moon. It sounds under the cloud. It sounds in the light and to the tune of the wind. It echoes from the trees and is seen off an eye.

The drum is in our step. Its rhythm and its tale. Would that I could hear it when I find no song. Let me see its fall when I see no star.

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