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The wall of the earth is narrow and wonderful, coloured threads, creeds and distant lands. One voice, each pattern is breath, lives with memory, love, and death.
Ethnically, it is the scent of mother stew, the rhythm of drums, and dance. It is a language that reflects through the quiet night whispers, phones, in the morning. It is a hair, a carved wooden spoon, babysitting by under the month.
How we welcome the way we pray, Stories are haunted every day. The nation is both roots and wings - It justifies the soul, but makes it sing. The past crown worn without shame, Fire is kept in the name.
There are no checked boxes or boundaries, but living culture, from dusk to dawn. It's who we are when no one sees pulse behind our story.
No moves removed Line has not been deleted. This marks the trunk, blood and signs. Nationalism means proudly wearing the thread of life they brought there.