The sun is gone, the night is calling. A primal rhythm starts sprawling. From ancient dust to city light. We carry fire through the night. Your body moves with stories old. A truth more precious than pure gold. The drum remembers, so do we. Beneath the concrete and the tree. Yehla moya! Kuyakhula! Yehla moya! Kuyakhula! The beat connects, a lightning thread. From crowded floor to distant shed. A single groove, a world of sound. Where every soul is homeward bound. Yehla moya! Kuyakhula! Yehla moya! Kuyakhula! When silence falls, the echo stays. A rhythm learned in warmer days. It lives in every step we take. For every new tomorrow's sake. Yehla moya. Kuyakhula. Humming.
