The beat makers are at it again;
slowly and steadily, beating the drum,
she screams in pain, but not as loud as before
I guess she's tired, nobody can rescue her
from the terror of her maker.
A slow, continuous nod of head from the survivors like they are descendants of the endangered agama lizard;
enduring the fading screams of the crying drum,
they gathered themselves together around the
fierce fire they've captured in the middle,
moving their body to connect to the pains of the talking drum.
Their legs, raising dust, as they danced around
to calm the rage of this caged fire
and heavy claps to the sky like they are trying to wake a sleeping saviour.
The wind whispering to them some divine answers to many questions
while the moon and stars, observing from afar,
the behaviours of this unknown tribe.

© damithemessenger