Stretched out taut over a drum
is the skin of a dead man
who died at the hand of original sin.
Guilty from his very first breath,
till death he worked to right his wrongs,
only to always fail in the end.

Born a crook, his first steps
were taken in the sand;
left behind and blamed ,
the cup overflows with blood.

Bruised fruit hanging from a tree,
they dance through the flames while a drum
as dark as the night that's about to come
is beaten until it's broken by time
like his forebears' souls throughout the diaspora.