Traveling through the graveyard with a suitcase full of sparks / Honey, I’m just trying to find my way to you / Lit up every campfire I found out in the dark / Oh, I cut down all the cottonwoods (Gregory Alan Isakov)

Off in the night, you can hear ‚em bright / The Sirens of the Sea / Oh and city birds and alley girls, they all just sing for free / Oh they all just sing for free (Gregory Alan Isakov)

But the drumhead rolled by name: / How you sound is / Who you are / Like drumsound / Backing back to root / Roosting at the meeting place / The time that has always been here (Avishai Cohen, poem Keorapetse Kgositsile)