From behind the curtain
her voice
holds tremolo and vibrato,
high and clear,
sweet and lilting,
with a hint of poignant sadness.
The drum pushes, pulses
her ululations from underneath,
building the bridge
that connects
the world to the origin
of its song,
evolved,
forgotten, debated,
documented, erased,
burned, rescued,
savaged and salvaged,
but ever
created.
The child and the drum.
Two become one,
and the heartbeat
keeps the time of memory,
even now.
Beyond Panic 