The drumming of hands sound

like a rain of pure sound, falling.

 

The strings of the balalaika strike a chord

in the hearts of all who are listening.

 

The drums beat a low drowning growl

as the imam calls all, a hymn of praise he intones.

 

All the instruments answer in perfect unison

note for note, following the melody of all the souls.

 

The faithful stand, hands clasped

they listen, they heed the secret signs.

 

The secrets of the soul, pour

like liquid gold, touching hearts and minds.

 

The chant, the drumming of hands, sound

like a rain of pure sound, falling.