So Tahnoon rode, and he watched, and he beheld the multitude of sand and the vast emptiness of it, mile upon baking mile. If Allah, thrice-blessed his name, would grant that he saw clearly then his purpose was served. The caravan behind him relied on Tahnoon’s eyes, only that. His spine, his thirst, the soreness of the saddle, none of it mattered. He rode, hunched, swaying with the gait of his camel, eyes squinting against the glare even behind the thin material of his shesh. Tahnoon’s back ached, his tongue scraped dry across the roof of his mouth. The prophet said sand is neither kind nor cruel, but in the oven of the Sahar it is hard to think that it does not hate you. The sun burns there, the wind whispers, all is in motion, too slow for the eye but more certain than sight. In the deepness of the desert, amid dunes taller than any prayer tower, men are made tiny, less than ants.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |