Tribal Rhythms

Still Here

The land remembers
every footstep.

Before the borders,
before the names,
there was breath
moving freely.

The ancestors did not ask
for permission
to belong.

They carried children,
songs,
and grief
across open ground.

What was taken
did not erase
what was known.

Hands learned kindness
so life could continue.
Voices learned silence
so truth could survive.

No one is illegal
to the earth.

The wind does not question
where you come from.
The soil does not demand
your papers.

We stand here still—
because they stood,
because they endured,
because they protected
without spectacle.

Freedom is not given.
It is remembered.

And the lesson passes on,
quiet as footsteps
on stolen land.

Before Names

This land did not arrive with paper.
It was already breathing
when footsteps learned to listen.

Stone remembers every promise.
Water carries them without shouting.
The ground does not argue.
It waits.

Ancestors stand behind us
without taking our place.
Their strength is quiet,
like hands on our backs
when the path narrows.

Protection is not a fence.
It is care repeated.
Compassion is not weakness.
It is how the earth survives us.

Walk gently.
You are not lost.
You are already held.