Drums for the brave

His backpack holds the weight of the earth: each stone—a story; each step—an opening.

The old boots that have seen so much;
A backpack on my shoulders—a second skin.
A worn compass in chapped fingers;
All these months—the city pressing into me.

Beat on the skin for the days behind us.
Beat on the skin for the road ahead.
Every thrum says go;
Every thrum says stay. (Oh-oh)
These drums for the leaving.
These drums for the brave.

We have a long and hard road ahead.
The kettles and stumps, like chairs.
Your hand finds mine in the quiet,
And the eyes speak more than any words.

Beat on the skin for the days behind us.
Beat on the skin for the road ahead.
Every thrum says go;
Every thrum says stay. (Oh-oh)
These drums for the leaving.
These drums for the brave.

Through majestic pines and frosted ridges,
Mountain breath clears my soul and mind.
Only the wind and the creak of leather—
Everything else we left behind.

Round and round
We move in a circle.
Old faces, new fears;
Dust rising like smoke.
If I cry,
Let it fall in rhythm.
Let the salt mark
Every step I won't revoke.

Beat on the skin for the days behind us.
Beat on the skin for the road ahead.
Every thrum says go;
Every thrum says stay. (Oh-oh)
These drums for the leaving.
These drums for the brave.

Beat on the skin for the days behind us.
Beat on the skin for the road ahead.
Every thrum says go;
Every thrum says stay. (Oh-oh)
These drums for the leaving.
These drums for the brave.

We carve our way where trails are thin, where the trees hold secrets older than time, and the peaks cut the sky with jagged lines.
Here, the world is stripped to its core—no voice can break this hushed eternity, where the wild takes back what once was borrowed.