“All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.” – T.E. Lawrence

***

Listen, Dreamer of the Day:

The desert calls you, like a prayer;

Her sands, the tide of destiny,

Washing everything clean

But the hearts of men.

She is a harsh mistress,

Changing those she caresses

Into wild things with thorns

That tear bloody gashes in flesh

And cream-colored cloth.

She splatters youthful faces red,

Reflecting in silver blades.

She raises a cry, deep in the throat,

Refusing to take prisoners.

You must live by her laws,

Or perish beneath them.

Yes, she makes you dangerous.

All that is illegitimate will be legitimized.

The desert is alive and undulating,

A nomadic spirit without a name,

And you must ride upon her back 

Lest she swallow you up.

She will put a new taste on your tongue:

The bitterness of victory. 

She will put a flame between your fingers:

An empire to extinguish.

You are the lightening in the storm,

And the pebble cast at clay feet.

You are fated to rise and fall,

And bear away worlds with you.

Your loyalties will be tested here,

And the weight of every word.

The line betwixt sand and sky is clear-cut,

Though the souls of men are not.

God is all-pervading here,

Where the lion-hunters prostrate

And the Sufis chant their love.

To you, He remains an enigma,

Terrible as dawn over dunes.

It seems Christ, too, wanders

In the wilderness of your memory,

Hungering and thirsting

Through an everlasting Lent,

While the demons tempt their Deity

And the sun torments the Son.

You are summoned by shadows

That will never sleep.

You are a searcher, and a struggler,

A sojourner through life

Sunk into the divine.

You combine two archetypes:

The victor of battles and the teller of tales,

At the crossroads of civilizations,

Where the past and future collide.

First and last, you are an island’s son,

Amphibious and adaptable,

And you will make any sacrifice

To save other such sons

And serve your kingdom’s interests.

You will spin deceptions

That will scar your spirit,

And when you ride through the desert,

Speaking her ancient tongue,

In the company of her children,

You risk betraying her,

Misleading them,

And losing yourself.

You must live with your dichotomies,

For your legend will never die.

Yes, it has been written:

You are of Albion and Arabia both.

History treads its weary road

Of gory libations

And partial liberations.

Yet we drink to our tarnished goods,

And our stumbling heroes,

And the words that weave rivers,

Coursing like blood through every heart

Thirsting for greatness…

And emptiness.

On the other side of fire and water,

You will wend your way home;

Not far from the island’s edge,

You will erect your seven pillars;

To the song of your native sea,

You will chronicle your desert journey.

Your hard-won wisdom alone

Will be your knighthood.

Your ashes will not be scattered in the sands;

Your bones will lie in Britainnia’s bosom.

You will be buried in Christian ground,

Marked with the sign of a forgotten faith,

That greatest of dichotomies,

Beam crossing bloodied beam,

And the words on your gravestone

Bid you dream on, at last asleep,

Till the trumpet of resurrection blows

And the sand and sea flow together.

Listen, oh, listen…

The hour is coming and now is

When the dead shall hear the voice

Of the Son of God.

And they that hear shall live.