The elders tell of a talking drum,

Beaten by hands, yet leading the dance.

They say, “The man is the drummer of the home,

His hands must shape the rhythm of life.”

But oh, the calabash whispers another tale,

For when the river runs wild and deep,

The drum is handed to him—“Decide, O man, you lead!”

Yet when the waters calm, the drum is snatched,

“No, let me play, my hands know best.”

Nine times of ten, the tale is the same,

The drummer plays, but the dancer leads,

And when the dance stumbles, the blame is his,

For was he not the man, the master of beats?

So the talking drum sighs in the night,

Beaten by hands, yet led by feet,

And wonders if it truly speaks,

Or if its echo is merely borrowed breath.