Sand dunes are the waves of land. As waves roll across the sea, so do dunes; by winds they are molded, their change however indiscernible, just as a star traversing the night sky. But change they do. Drifting across land. Shapeshifting overnight. Unrecognizable the morning after. Hampering the progress of the searching nomad. Just as humans.

With his turban wrapped around his face the nomad, camel in tow, trudged up the sandy slopes that stood taller than the palace of the sultan. Despite sandals shielding his cracked feet from the baking sand the heat pretended they did not exist, prodding him to continue skipping along. Reaching the dune’s crest he stopped for a moment to catch his breath and scan the horizon.

Yellow undulated into the distance as far as he could see, blending into a haze as sky met land.

The air burnt his lungs as he drew in a few breaths, his exposed face getting stung by the fine grains of searing dust that drifted along with the wind. I should reach the next well by sundown, he thought as he surveyed the unassuming lands for signs that had been mentioned by the caravan he had accidentally encountered the previous day. Wrapping the cloth tighter around his face, leaving only his eyes bared he tugged on his camel to continue moving.

It was some time after the sun had set and the baking ground had cooled to a degree reasonable enough for stopping that he set up camp to rest. Taking a sip of water he let it settle a while to quench his parched tongue. He ate a bit from his ration of dates and bread, but the bread refused to be chewed down. Gingerly he tipped the goatskin for another sip of water to help swallow. They had not yet reached the well.

Stars glimmered above, embedded within their host of perpetual darkness. He scanned them, imploring them to reveal to him their secrets and show him the way he was meant to follow. As he traced the beacons of light, tales began to materialize in his mind. As a young boy his grandfather had told him grandiose stories of heroism and love that were written by the stars. Of a warrior king breaking down the gates of the enemy city with his bare hands. Of the princess as majestic as the rising sun whose piercing gaze made even the strongest of men cower. Of journeys to the ends of the world where exotic creatures and people inhabited lush green lands. Such fantastical tales enshrined by the stars had captured his imagination as he was growing up; each cluster existing to preserve history.

Upon finding the constellation that was his guide he took a stick from the fire and drew a direction in the sand for the following day. Although low on water he suddenly felt confident there was not much ground left to cover before reaching the well. Spreading a sheet onto the cool ground he prepared to finally rest for the day.

As sleep began to lay its shroud across his eyes, drifting him gradually into the land of dreams, a constellation came to his notice. It was one he was quite familiar with; one which appeared within the patch of sky that was visible through the open courtyard of his house where he often slept in the summers. The walls and rooms of his house rose out from the sand around him. He walked through the space, making his way to the door that stood ajar. Stepping out onto the narrow street that lead away from his home he walked by traders standing by their stalls, attempting to beguile passersby to buy vegetables, fruits, or the trinkets they had purchased from foreign lands. Children darted across the square, chuckling and laughing as they raced towards the fountain pouring cool, glistening water enticingly into the white marble crucible. The two old men were also there at their usual spot, playing chess outside the café, each taking a drag of a hookah while the other pondered on his next move.

And the bejeweled indigo cloak. Flowing behind its wearer like the wake of a boat – the sequins shimmering as speckled water reflecting sunlight – leaving everything behind in a state of turbulence.

He bobbed out of his reverie, eyes trickling with emotion. With a cloth he dabbed his eyes and wrung out the bits of water into the water sack. Each drop is precious, he thought. Just as each memory. He pulled out a quill and parchment from his belongings and underneath the dazzling light of the stars and the dying embers of the campfire began to scratch across the surface of the parchment:

The wind catches your veil,

your eyes catch mine.

I look upon the sublime.

I look upon the divine.

My bosom carries your tale to lands untold

where it shall reside

for none to behold

Except you,

if you care for it to unfold.

A disorientation greeted him when he awoke the next morning. For a moment he felt he was still home, having fallen asleep in the courtyard. It took a while before he began to recognize the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. Securing his belongings to his companion he deliberated which direction to set off in. Even though the mark he had drawn in the sand still lingered, a doubt began to dawn in his mind just as the sun peered out from below the horizon. The desert was not his home and he was only just beginning to familiarize himself with it. Where he was coming from was no longer home either. Home was nowhere.