The Sleeper of the Sand

 

Beneath a dune of silver dust,

Where time lay still, as all things must,

A camel slept through centuries' sigh,

While stars rolled silent through the sky.

No hoof had stirred, no bell had rung,

Since ancient songs were last far-flung.

But then one night, a trembling breeze

Whispered through the tamarisk trees.

The stars were speaking, sharp and bright,

And heaven pulsed with newborn light.

The sleeper stirred—his breath grew deep,

He woke from long and wordless sleep.

He rose alone on trembling legs,

Through drifting dunes and rocky dregs.

The wind that met him sang of change,

Of kings and shepherds, wide and strange.

The desert blinked with wonder’s gleam—

Was this a dream inside a dream?

Yet still he walked, his pace unsure,

Drawn by a voice both kind and pure.

Then in the haze of morning's gold,

He saw a herd, majestic, bold.

Their backs bore gifts, their hearts held flame,

But when they saw him—still they came.

"Who walks from ages lost in dust?

With bones of stone, and heart of trust?"

They circled him with cautious grace,

And saw the past upon his face.

The leader came, both wise and worn,

With eyes like those who’ve seen the morn

Of something more than day or sun—

A truth too vast to be undone.

"We’ve seen a sign," the leader said,

"A star that burns where angels tread.

We ride to witness holy birth,

Where heaven stooped to touch the earth."

And so he joined them, side by side,

Through hills of sand, they slowly ride.

No map they held, no words they shared,

But all within were strangely bared.

Then silence fell, and all things stilled,

As if the very stars were thrilled.

They reached a place of humble light—

A manger in the folded night.

A baby slept where domestic stable,

Wrapped in the whisper breath of God.

The kings had knelt. The beasts were still.

The desert bowed its stubborn will.

The sleeper saw with ancient eyes

The answer written in the skies.

Not thrones, nor swords, nor golden halls—

But hope within four fragile walls.

A whisper drifted through the straw,

"Blessed are the meek and poor in awe."

And from the child, though newborn small,

A voice unseen still called to all:

"Love your enemies. Turn from pride.

Feed the hungry. Walk beside.

Forgive, and mercy will be sown.

Give, and you are never alone."

He knelt. The dust fell from his knees.

He wept with wonder on the breeze.

And all around, the earth was hushed—

As if the curse itself were crushed.

Then time passed by. Or maybe not.

In desert hearts, time is forgot.

The herd turned back, the starlight dimmed,

But still the camel’s spirit brimmed.

Beside the leader, slow in pace,

He asked, "What came of that child's face?"

"That flame," he said, "born soft and small—

What did he do? What did he call?"

The leader paused, his breath held tight,

His eyes still lit by manger light.

“He walked,” he said, “on soil and sea.

He healed. He loved. He set souls free.”

“He taught us not to strike, but bless—

To clothe the naked in distress.

To raise the low, forgive the wrong,

To turn the weak into the strong.”

“But men,” he sighed, “are slow to hear.

They nailed him fast in hate and fear.

They crowned him thorns, and raised him high—

They hung the Son of God to die.”

The sleeper wept. “And that was all?”

The leader smiled. “No. That was the call.

For death was broken by his breath—

He rose, and robbed the grave of death.”

“Now those who wander still may find

The light that heals the shattered mind.

And we, who saw that infant flame,

Still walk in love, and speak his name.”

The sleeper bowed his heavy head.

“I slept through all the tears you shed.

But now I wake, and I will roam—

To guide the weary pilgrim home.”

So still he walks, through night and sun,

Until the desert’s race is run.

A witness not of might or throne,

But of a God who came alone.

And in the hush of drifting sand,

The sleepers rise, and understand.

For in a manger, small and wild—

The world was born anew… a child.