They beat their drums incessantly. Never stopping, not until it was over. They thought that the gods would listen to them, if they shouted loud enough, if they cried loud enough, and if they wept loud enough.
But it was all in vain. As they beat the drums, nothing happened. The rain wouldn’t come, and the desert winds still inched closer to the land, threatening it with drought and famine. But still they didn’t stop. They couldn’t.
The tribe didn’t stop because they had hope. That hope was that the gods were still listening, that somehow in the lofty heights of their heavenly home they still cared for the troubles of mortals.
But what do you do when the gods no longer care? What can be done when the gods no longer listen? You can beat your drums, play your organs, and sing your songs of praise as loud as you can, but when the gods or God isn’t there, you’re doing it for nothing. You’ve become like Icarus flying to the sun. Get too close and your wings will melt.
That is what happened to this tribe. They beat their drums as loud as they could. And still nothing happened. No god replied. No god responded. There was no savior. There was no messiah. And so the sands came, the drought killed them, casting them away into a distant past that can never be recalled.
Few things are remembered. Few things live on. Nothing does. They become a relic of the past and are lost forever.