The ancient village of Bounou has been the hub of many of the great caravans that have traversed the invisible trails of this pathless land.
Through the rise and fall of great empires and the biting terror of insufferable drought it has sat here, Buddha like, in the face of the dervish like changes around it.
Drawn up from the very earth on which it lightly sits, it is deeply participative and intimately connected with its desert roots.
Now in these quick and disconnected times it is returning to the earth from whence it came, slowly dissolving back into the terracotta sands.
The once thriving Casbah lies empty, bereft of its human inhabitants. Until recently five hundred families thronged its old testament streets.
Now, just five remain, sitting in the crumbling ruins surrounded by the fading dreams and incomparable history of the free Berber tribes.
Whilst time flows quickly around them, these refugees from our modern age sit in timeless reflection.
Head cocked, listening, the old man rests and the desert wind reveals its innermost secrets to those few who can still hear her sensual voice.
Are these the last of their kind, a fading memory of the Thousand and One Nights, the final fragrance of Scheherazade blown away on those wild Saharan zephyrs.
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Photo courtesy of the author.