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.