Rapping of the drum

Da dum da dum da dum —
The rapping of a drum.

Lying in my chamber bed,
between the wake and dream
I heard what I perceived to be
the rapping of a drum.

I could hear the women sing,
men and angels too;
in my head flashed colors new
as if in Heaven's ring.

The women sang with banshee cries,
according to the drum;
perhaps they cried aloud to some
to comfort as they died.

Da dum da dum da dum —
The rapping of a drum.

The banging of the drum that night
coaxed my eyes to close
and dragged me from the world I know
to magic, awe, and fright.

The town was oddly empty
yet its streets were oddly clean.
The windows had the certain sheen
of water in the stream.

I wandered to the hours pass —
the houses stone and clay
that called me back to bygone days —
to make the slumber last.

The morning called for me to wake
and for my nightly fast to break,
although the drum had stopped its beat
and quiet reigned vicinity.

I checked up on my sister's bed
and to my sorrow found her dead.
A bullet had been through her head —
the banging of a gun.

I walked outside to see the town;
men and boys — soldiers — lay down.
Beside them lay their rifles too,
and also gals and girls in blue.