Tribal Rhythms

Before Law, There Was Land

Before the words were carved,
the ground was breathing.

No fence taught it.
No flag named it.

The elders spoke softly:
walk so the earth remembers you kindly.

Hands arrived.
So did hunger.
So did fear.

But the land did not accuse.
It waited.

Protection was not force.
It was care passed forward.

Strength was not conquest.
It was staying human
when power was offered.

Nothing here is illegal.
Only forgetting is.

Freedom is not permission.
It is responsibility—
to listen,
to tend,
to belong without owning.

The land still knows
who learned its name
first.

Before the Lines Were Drawn

Before the question was spoken,
the land was already listening.

Feet arrived,
as all feet do—
carrying hunger, hope, fear,
and a name learned later.

The elders did not ask for papers.
They asked for respect.

Wind crossed borders without sound.
Rivers never showed permission.
The earth did not belong—
it remembered.

Protection meant care.
Strength meant restraint.
Freedom meant knowing
when to stay
and how to live gently.

If you ask when someone should leave,
first ask
who taught you to stand here.

The land answers slowly.
It always has.