A straggler in the night
Night lights glimmer in the distant tents;
pavilions and sojourns in the dark
are warming up.
One by one, randomly, the distance emerges,
slides into the folds of the night;
each little dot, a promise of refuge
for the straggler trailing behind.
A few miles for the laggard to walk
and he will join the fold
of the men resting in the tents
beating the hunger and the tiredness.
Here the straggler watches in awe,
in the silence of the centuries,
watching the march of the history of his land
written in cold and the shifting sands.
The history ranging over time's scrolls
and the locations marked for cartographers:
the straggler should be well aware
of the destinations lying ahead in time, the vistas the morning will bring to light, with the coming of the awaited dawn.
Alone with the sight of the distant tents, their lights glimmering in the dark,
the straggler steals a moment in time
to watch the waves of sand rise and fall.
Riding the crest of the wave
the straggler cannot see himself
distinct from the wave and the sand.
Raise your hands to the infinity
which is trying to speak in the stillness of the land and the heart.
Raise your hands and look at the wonder rolling all around.
What
is the mystery hidden in the sand when all around the desert sleeps?
And why the mystery,when all answers have been found and stacked away as
of no use?
The shadow in the day is estranged by the night, and is
that the one, my shadow, my soul, standing there on the distant mound,
silent and distant from me?
The sands have stopped humming now.
A long-drawn absence speaks.
Seeking and losing, and finding again what was lost,
the straggler gathers the silence around.
The distant tents may not keep their lights long.
The straggler must stride and reach the tent
before the chill winds blow.
