Lawrence of Arabia

In the bleak sweep of a desert‑red landscape,
where yesterday’s dunes feel like a verdict,
lies the quiet rumour of a lone wind‑scarred horse—
his name a hushed create: Lawrence of Arabia.

He did not bleed for a flag pinned to the breast,
but for the dream of two mothers to wed:
the Bedouin’s thirst and the British troop’s hope.
In the silent gales of Tafilalt he spoke in furrows
to a people whose language sung of sand and starlight.

A soldier by self‑statement, an idea by necessity,
a scholar who could read the ridge of a scarlet sun,
he wore the cloak of a desert poet in a ribbon of Cambridge
and the shining badge of a Grand Cross.
His patches stitched a map that even maps could not chart.

Through torch‑lit corridors of the poet’s night,
he carved the dream of an empire that never lingered.
He was the man who turned words into oars,
bringing the Old Empire to the edge of a new dawn.

And now we remember: to the bristling spirit of the dunes,
the legend has outlived his favourite horse and his much‑sought jacket,
aching in the quiet of the desert,
his history sung by those who dream of room without a corner.