French la Vie

Let me play the drums with a rhythm that changes the course of bullets and bombs.
Let me sing a song that echoes
in the chambers of the hearts that no longer hear softness.

Let my song be a slow rebellion—
unignorable, graceful –
Let it seep through the cracks of those who built walls instead of homes.

Let my breath behind my voice
be the kind that stirs the dust where dreams once slept.

Let me strike a chord, a note, one key—
tuned to the hush between storms,
where a voice, gentle as rain on stone,
gathers the broken into stillness.

Let it echo where the weary wait,
where hands tremble yet reach,
where grace hums low through the ache.

A song carried like water in cupped palms,
arriving without needing a name.