-Beauty, Reflected in Sand-


The cradle of civilization, a wind-swept dust bowl
to those who spare it naught but a passing glance.
The desert is alive.

The grains of sand,
numbering greater than the descendants of Abraham,
older than the ziggurats of Ba'al, Marduk, and Ishtar.

Such a tale they could tell you,
if you would only extend your ear to listen.

From the adoration of Anshar, Nabu, Sin,
to the encompassing embrace of al-Ilah.
This land bears the mark of divinity.

O'er the ramparts, or semblances of ramparts,
of the cities defended by Saladin.
Saladin, Defender. 
Defender against the infidel hordes of the north,
the flash of the shamshir and the curve of the crescent moon
signifying his allegiance.

Gods come and fall, as do religions.
The land never changes.

The ageless sands of the desert,
witnesses to the ever-turning wheel of history,
begin to stir.

Across those maginficent dunes, they ride the wind.
Only to settle upon other grains,
sands which have witnessed time previous and have been laid to rest.

The Desert is alive.
The Desert is my home.
The people of the Desert are my people.
The God of the Desert is within us all.

The grains of sand,
faceted and reflective to the rays of the sun,
begin shedding their light silently...