Northern Pulse

No towers, no wires, just stars and the drum. The frost speaks

in rhythms. The silence becomes a pulse in the snow, a beat in

the bone. We are the ones who were never

alone. The grid went dark, but we stayed lit.

Our fire's not cold, its spirit uncracked. Northern pulse

rising slow. From the ice, the truth will grow. Off the grid,

but in the flow. We are the signal they'll never know.

Stories carved in antler and stone pass through breath, not microphone. We walk the