And there were dunes, rocks, and plants that insisted on living where survival seemed impossible.
There was the desert that he had wandered for so many months; despite all that time, he knew only a small part of it.
Within that small part, he had found an Englishman, caravans, tribal wars, and an oasis with fifty thousand palm trees and three hundred wells.
“What do you want here today?” the desert asked him. “Didn’t you spend enough time looking at me yesterday?”
“Somewhere you are holding the person I love,” the boy said. “So, when I look out over your sands, I am also looking at her.
I want to return to her, and I need your help so that I can turn myself into the wind.”
“What is love?” the desert asked. “Love is the falcon’s flight over your sands.
Because for him, you are a green field, from which he always returns with game.
He knows your rocks, your dunes, and your mountains, and you are generous to him.”
“The falcon’s beak carries bits of me, myself,” the desert said. “For years, I care for his game, feeding it with the little water that I have,
and then I show him where the game is. And, one day, as I enjoy the fact that his game thrives on my surface,
the falcon dives out of the sky, and takes away what I’ve created.”
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