The bigger drum’s the one first heard
Pounding thru the night.
It preys upon the breathless word
Of herds that stomp in fright.
And when the dusty plains are swept,
The victors proudly write
Of savage souls who idly slept
‘Til they brought forth the light.
And thru the dusty air they pound
That might indeed makes right,
While spirits buried in the ground
Rise up with clearest insight.
A smaller drum yet no less heard
Pulsing thru the night,
A natural light no more deterred
As right at last makes might.