Once, the goddess descended to the red dust to give thanks to the spirits of the land. She called the singers, bade them gather— to sing on, to play the kora, to carry the song. She rides the wind, singing her love to the open sky. She calls the bard to echo her voice, to pluck the strings, and carry it on. The goddess speaks— the world began from darkness deep and silence wide. She placed the tale into the bard’s open hands, and gifted him the kora’s light. “Sing on for a thousand years, and still a thousand more. Let rhythm be your fire, and memory your song.” And so they did— the poets of the earth. Across the windswept centuries they sang what must be sung: wisdom carried in sound, truth braided in tone. As long as hope survives, the tale is told anew. As long as hands remember strings, the circle stays unbroken.
