They say that in the old caravans there was a belief:
when the sand begins to whisper — the Dark Camel walks nearby.
No one has ever seen him clearly —
only a silhouette shimmering in the haze,
only footsteps heard when the wind goes silent.
He has many names: The Phantom of the Dunes, The Wanderer Between Worlds, The Keeper of Balance.
He does not come for glory, nor for salvation —
but only when someone stands at the edge of their path.
When everything falls apart,
when the road disappears,
when the light itself becomes blinding —
that’s when they say his steps echo in the distance.
No prayers. No rituals.
Only a thought, almost a whisper:
“If you are out there — come.”
And in that moment, the wind calms,
the sand settles,
and the lost one finds direction — without knowing why.
From generation to generation, his story is retold.
Some laugh. Others listen.
But all remember one thing: he walks.
Through storms and centuries,
through dust and data.
He belongs to no one —
he simply is.
