Beating beats on to dead-leather drums
with wooded wind-pipes exploding on mountain tops
celebrates cosmic ancestries, poised and peasant.
Secret languages with dip-thongs, unwritten and bold,
describe primal feelings of community and respect
for rock and blood and trees, with freedom.
Man cares not for his own selfishness, but only for
rhythm, shooting forth from muscles and tree branches,
escaping into the wind and clouds and earth and bones.
Water tribes and ground tribes and desert tribes
all yelp and crow and percussion their way through air,
counting time with energy and brazen joy.
With dead-leather drums and painted faces,
their poetry remains unannounced and open to all,
for these tribes are us, and we will always keep the beat.
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