Tribal Rhythms

Before the Law

The land was breathing
long before uniforms arrived.

It knew footsteps,
bare and careful,
and names spoken softly
to the ground.

Ancestors stood
without fences.
They protected
by staying.

They learned patience
from stone,
mercy from water,
strength from holding
what could not be carried away.

Power did not shout.
It watched.
It waited.

When rules were written,
the earth did not sign.
It kept its memory
in roots and dust.

No badge can unmake
a belonging older than fear.

A body is not illegal
where breath is allowed.

This lesson is passed
hand to hand,
generation to generation—
quiet,
unyielding,
still alive.

Red Ground, Living Breath

We stand
where names were taken,
not footsteps.

The land remembers
before borders,
before silence was forced.

Red earth holds
the weight of many voices,
still breathing.

Ancestors did not leave.
They became wind,
became patience,
became watchful care.

To walk here
is not trespass.
It is return.

Protection is quiet.
Strength does not shout.
It stays.

Freedom is not given.
It is remembered
by the ground
under our feet.

Before the Fence

The land breathes
before names are spoken.

We stand on it
as guests of time,
not owners of dust.

Ancestors walk quietly here—
in roots,
in stone,
in the patience of grass.

They teach without shouting:
protect what holds you,
carry what carried you,
leave room for those yet unborn.

Freedom is not taking.
It is listening.

The earth remembers
who keeps their hands open.