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This is far more than the sound of drums — it is a living voice, carried through centuries. Each strike of skin against wood steps back into the fire where it was first born, calling to the ancestors whose echoes still move within its pulse. It does not simply measure time. It speaks of legends never written, tales too fierce to disappear. From the dry, scorched earth to the bright edge of the sky, from the murmurs of sacred rites to the roar of celebration — this rhythm has lived a thousand lifetimes, and it will live a thousand more.