There it is, the stars seem to say. And he looks into the sand-grave near him, where little Najib practises how to die.
Yes; a fitting symbol of the life and love called modern, boasting of freedom. They dance their dervish dance, these people, even like Khalid’s little Najib, and fall into their sand-graves, and fold their arms and smile: “We are in love—or we are out of it.” Which is the same.
No: he’ll have none of this. A heart as simple as this desert sand, as deep in affection as this heaven, untainted by the uncertainties and doubts and caprices of modern life—only in such a heart is the love that endures, the love divine and eternal.
He goes into Najma’s tent. The mother and her child are sound asleep. He stands between the bed and the cot contemplating the simplicity and innocence and truth, which are more eloquent in Najib’s