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Old Auntie Fatma, who usually complained of aching knees, was the first to wave her handkerchief in the air. The square transformed from a quiet meeting place into a whirlwind of spinning colors and rhythmic stomping. The dust rose from the ground, but no one cared. Each strike of Kerem’s drum seemed to shatter a week’s worth of exhaustion.
"Are you ready, boy?" Osman asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "The people didn't come here to just eat. They came to shake off the dust of the harvest." vur_oynasin
(Come on, strike it and let them dance!) Old Auntie Fatma, who usually complained of aching
Osman took a deep breath, and the sharp, piercing wail of the zurna sliced through the chatter of the crowd. It was the signal. He leaned over and whispered the command that every reveler waited for: Each strike of Kerem’s drum seemed to shatter
The sun began to set behind the dusty hills of the village, painting the sky in shades of saffron and violet. In the center of the square, the long wooden tables were already groaning under the weight of freshly baked flatbreads, bowls of cooling cacık , and platters of grilled meats.
Uncle Osman, the village’s most seasoned zurna player, sat on a low stool, adjusting his reed. Beside him, young Kerem gripped his davul (drum), his heart thumping faster than any rhythm he had ever played. This was his first wedding as the lead drummer.
Kerem nodded, sweat beading on his forehead. "I'm ready, Uncle."