Zainab Sayed

War Drums

Zainab Sayed

Silent battlefield, the strike of the witching hour painted wretched red. Half a dozen thistle-ridden breaths sound; three across from three, each firm in their right to victory, steel against steel, friction sparking half a dozen hearts to fury.

Each beat a curse; A Fury lands by each drummer, wings drawn back to strike. Here be oath-breakers, makers of friction and discord, takers of lies to the red of sunset—to when they will lose the right to their dissonance, their colliding sound.

Without drums, deafening sound: lead feet, heavy bullets, soldiers’ fury in less words. But the clap of the drums right as they advance makes music, makes each strike a dance. They dance! The drummers watch as red covers red. They fight their war in friction.

Vengeance’s soundtrack, friction of skin on wood on skin, falling to sound intent. Marching on autumn leaves, the red of rebirth to come. Hell hath no fury like a life left to rot, no storm a strike like the rise and drop of left, right, left, right.

89

At first, there was wrong to right. Hesitation, fated static friction. Then, that catalyst of rage that can strike any soul. Nothing to mend, just the sound of blood in the ears, heart-flame of fury, all color lost except that razing red.

In this scene of vivid red, characters of tragedy: to the right, a man, a flower, a pool, a Fury in wait. To the left, chaos and friction, a bird, kerosene with no match, the sound of the space right after a lightning-strike.

But when the red fury fades at springtime’s strike, there will be no right, no wrong, no friction. The drums will fall still, and silence will sound.

90