Tracks & Sacred Land
They appeared, as in a dream, at the top of the dune, half hidden by the mist of sand that lifted their feet. Slowly they came down into the valley, following the track almost invisible. As head of the caravan, there were men wrapped in their woolen coats, their faces masked by the blue veil. With them went two or three camels and goats and sheep harassed by boys. Women brought up the rear. The silhouettes were heavier, encumbered by the heavy coats and the skin of their arms and their foreheads seemed even darker in indigo veils.
The Sun was still high in the naked sky, the wind carried the sounds and smells. The sweat was pouring slowly on the faces of travelers, and their dark skin had taken reflect of indigo, on their cheeks, on their arms, along their legs. The blue tattoos on the forehead of women shone like beetles. Black eyes, like drops of metal, barely looked at the expanse of sand, seeking the line of the track between the waves of dunes.
Personal and private translation from Désert J.M.G. Le Clezio
The sky is young. In few hours, the wind will shake up a desert shaped, for months, by the north wind. Days of disorder: the dunes, taken at an angle, spin their sand in long strands, and each unwinds to recuperate a little further.
Personal and private translation from Courrier Sud A. St. Exupery