Hold the Line

The mountain does not argue with the wind. It does not curse the coming

of the snow. It knows the storm will break and then begin

again, and yet its roots are buried low. We were born

of ash and river mud. Before the spoken word, there was

the beat. A silent, iron current in the blood

that keeps us standing upright on our feet. Can you hear

it rising from the ground? The hum beneath the chaos and the fear.

This is the first song that destiny found. The only rhythm that the spirits