It was the songs we sang,

the beat of the drum,

how we felt it when our feet hit the ground,

rose up and swayed with our hips,

filled out lungs,

and united our souls.

The full moon,

the harvest moon.

It was slow and as always,

it began with the drums.

Heated and tight,

the warm skin of it called to us.

It was that first lonely voice cutting through the night.

And the crowd would thin out.

Twilight belonged to the young and the strong.

We took the night,

as long as the drum beat run we did not stop.

Sweat pooled beneath the drummers.

The dust rose, caked on our skin, stuck to the ochre in our hair.

We rose and rose and rose.

Swaying, heaving, the blood sang.

We kissed and tangled,

naked, dancing souls lost to the music.

In that night,

morning would never come,

our feet would never still,

the madness of the song was with us,

and the drums played on.

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