She screamed with a deep voice. She screamed from the depths of her belly, right across the river. The river was full and no one could cross. Her voice echoed in the depths of the forest, in the caves, through the mountains, to the villages and right into the people’s consciousness. For many years, there had been a storm that never ended, and as no one could cross over, the tribe had split into two.
On the one side of the river, they spoke an ancient tongue left by the ancestors of their land. This tribe also searched their archives looking for their forefathers songs that could harness and quieten the storm. While on the other side, they developed new languages, and investing on new technologies that could perhaps assist to someday cross over to the lands where their umbilical chords were buried. After many years, the tribe built a ship that someday sunk the entire tribe.
I hope someday when the storms is over, all the tribes of Wamadingho (as told in another dream) will reunite in the underworlds, where the drum plays all day and night.