The Circle of the Drum

 

Gather close, children of the fire.

The night is wide, the stars are many,
but the drum is calling us to remember.

Long ago, before the pen touched paper,
our stories lived in breath and rhythm.
A grandmother’s voice, soft yet strong,
a grandfather’s wisdom, sharp as the spear,
and the drum—always the drum—
beating like the heart of the earth.

We are the people of circles.
We dance in circles.
We pray in circles.
We gather in circles,
for the circle has no end.
It carries the past into the present,
and the present into tomorrow.

Listen—
the hunter speaks of the lion he faced,
but behind his words is the lesson:
Courage is not in the spear,
it is in the spirit that dares to stand.

Listen—
the farmer tells of the stubborn soil,
but behind his sweat is the truth:
Patience feeds the hungry,
for even the hardest earth yields to care.

Stories are not just for telling.
They are seeds.
And when you carry them,
they grow inside you,
pushing roots into your bones,
blossoming into the choices you make.

So take this story tonight.
Hold it as you would hold fire.
Pass it as you would pass water.
Live it as you would live breath.

For when the drum beats again,
and the circle calls you home,
you too will tell—
and your words will rise,
like sparks into the dark.