The skin of the drum is smooth like mine
A hand glides across it, and my heart beats faster
There is a rhythm in who I am
Something ancient
Summoned with a touch
The base of a palm
Fingertips
They take me away
Place my heels in dreamscapes
Where I have lived a thousand times
Birthed and buried
While the bara played
In the distance
The horizon opens its arms
Tucks me into reflective ripples
The drum keeps time
Its skin as smooth as mine
