We were all Nomads then. Wanderers.
Restless, moving, twitchy, searching.
Failing, surpassing. Frightened, fearless.
Green and foolish.
Sometimes the quest was without ourselves, sometimes within.
But we all listened to a beat in our heads.
Sometimes the beat was bright, sometimes Blue.
Most marched to the same time. Others to a thrum only they could hear.
But a few, the rare, banged the drum, making their own music.
We marchers followed, but the drummers led.
Lifting lives all around them.
Now the drummer stands on a low, glowing, grassy hill.
We're blind to the vista that catches his eye.
He turns and waves. And smiles his wide, shining smile.
We're deaf, but he hears a pure riff.
A flock of Ravens soars overhead, screeching.
One, magnificent and burning black, leaves the flock and leads him over the rise.
Then flies back to the fold.
The Raven speaks to we Nomads, Nomads still, in a voice that beats in our brains.