The South doesn’t speak with just one voice.
It walks in footsteps across dust roads,
sings in breaths traded between hills,
and speaks in strings that don’t need words.
Every village moves at its own rhythm,
every beat is a language that never forgets.

Some play with calloused hands,
others with eyes lifted to the sky.
There’s music rising from damp earth,
another descending from the spine of the Andes,
one that blooms in the chest
when the day ends and the fire begins.

The melodies don’t stay still:
they cross borders, ride the wind,
blend like rivers carrying stories
from the highlands to the valleys.
Laughter, dance —
and always, between the notes,
that kind of silence that listens.

This is how the South pulses.
Not in one direction,
but in a thousand woven paths.
A heartbeat that asks not to be understood —
only followed.