A quiet dawn over clay-walled structures. Shadows of soft percussion are lying on the ground in an even pattern, like the first rays on parched grass. Voices are interlaced with the midday heat and the coolness of clay pitchers; they echo one another, creating a pattern, light and intricate, like fingerprints in wet clay. A bass flow - warm and deep, like freshly tilled earth. Synthesizers spread like a light haze over the horizon, shimmering like the air above heated stones. Here there is silence between the notes, a space where ancestral echoes dwell, and a fluid movement born from the very tread of the day on a dusty village square