Trials

Beyond the sheltered valley of delight,
Our pilgrim ventured into lands unknown.
Soon verdant fields gave way to blighted sight:
Charred remnants of forests blackened and prone,
Villages in ruin, roofs caved and charred,
And silence where once life’s vibrance was sown.
This was a land where hope had been marred,
Where war or plague left marks of misery;
Stench of despair in air heavy and tarred.
He wrapped the plain brown shawl about gently,
Hiding his glowing robe of inner peace,
To walk among the lost as no one but he.

In a hamlet scorched, his steps did decrease;
He saw gaunt faces peering from huts torn,
Eyes hollow, suspicious, begging surcease.
From house to house, burnt shafts of wheat forlorn
Stood charcoaled in fields where famine held reign.
Children cried feebly, weak from empty morn.
The pilgrim’s heart clenched seeing so much pain:
Here wisdom’s lofty light seemed far away,
Hunger of flesh overcame hunger of brain.
He approached a rubble well where they say
A few villagers gathered to draw
Muddy water for their thirst day by day.

As he neared, their voices hushed into awe,
Not reverent but wary of the strange,
For travelers were rare since ruin did gnaw.
He offered greeting, careful not to change
Their comfort by any holy pretense.
He asked what happened, what made fortune estrange.
An elder with face of grief deep and dense
Answered slow, voice raspy from smoke and fear:
“Plague came first, then soldiers crossing from hence
To elsewhere; they burned all and left us mere
To fend among ashes of kith and kin.
We survive barely; death ever is near.”

One woman with babe too weak to grin
Looked up with desperate hope and hollow eyes:
“Do you bring aid or care? Our lives grow thin.”
The pilgrim nodded, sorrowed by their cries.
Not a doctor nor wealthy lord was he,
Yet something from his journey might suffice.
“I carry little, yet what I have, see—”
He reached into satchel and produced bread,
Unbroken loaves three from Beloved City.
He gave them out to hands trembling in dread,
And to the well, went to draw water fresh;
He had seen near valley a stream’s riverbed.

Boiling the water to cleanse death’s thresh,
He helped them drink, and those too weak he fed.
From house to house he moved, driven enmesh
By compassion, caring not how he bled
From cuts or exhaustion or hunger pangs.
Day turned to dusk as he ministered ahead.
Though no miracle, except comfort and simple charity,
A spark lit in eyes where hopelessness hangs.
At night they offered him sanctuary
In a hut half-standing, to share their rest.
He sat by a small fire; they huddled free.

Under broken roof they felt strangely blessed;
The pilgrim told them of no city grand
But offered prayers and songs at their behest.
A lullaby from his childhood land
He sang soft, as mothers nod in relief,
And children for a moment dreams command
Chasing butterflies instead of grief.
In that gentle timbre tears quietly fell
From war-scarred souls, cathartic healing brief.
They asked who he was, why he chose to dwell
With destitute strangers in a wasteland.
He answered humbly, truth in what he’d tell:

“I was once lost in darkness, ‘til a hand
Led me through forests and deserts of doubt.
Now I follow an inner light’s command
To go wherever despair lies about
And simply share what gifts I’ve received:
Kindness, knowledge, hope’s seed to sprout.
My name matters not, nor could be believed,
I’m but a seeker learning to give back
For all the mercy that my soul relieved.”
They marveled, yet further questions did stack,
So he spent the evening recounting mild
Tales of wisdom gleaned on his mystic track.

He spoke of hunger that can’t be exiled
By food or drink, a thirst of soul and mind;
How emptiness and form in union smiled.
Though much was abstruse, they found him kind
And slept more peaceful with him in their midst,
As if his presence left balm left behind.
At dawn he rose to leave, yet they insist
He stays longer, fearing what lies beyond.
But he, on path, by duty’s call was kissed.
He promised to send help from where is fond—
Maybe the City of the Beloved’s aid,
Though distant, their goodwill might respond.

He left amidst thanks and blessings prayed,
Continuing north where mountains did loom.
Each step a question: Could all this be stayed—
These cycles of suffering, violence, doom?
He had seen the heights of human spirit,
Now the depths of our woe in contrast fume.
How to bridge the gulf? Could love clear it?
He remembered the Sufi’s admonition:
Not for self alone is the holy writ.
Trial and sorrow refine our mission,
As fire to gold or chisel to stone,
So compassion must grow from vision.

While crossing rocky passes ragged grown,
He encountered bandits famished and cruel—
Fleeing those wars but predating alone.
They beset him, five men armed as a rule,
Demanding coin or bread or life thereby.
The pilgrim had naught but his inner jewel.
He calmly met their gaze and did not lie:
“I have no gold, only a loaf to eat,
Which I will gladly share though small supply.”
The ruffians, perplexed by this man they meet
Who showed no fear and offered freely bread,
Lowered weapons though desperate minds compete.

One snatched the loaf and split it to shred,
Devouring half, giving half to others.
They then argued if to strike him dead—
For what use a man with empty druthers?
One with scarred face spat, “He’ll slow us, no gain.”
Another, younger, “He could guide like brothers.
He seems a holy beggar, maybe slain
If left alone in these mountains by foes.”
The leader sneered, “Peace, boys, keep your brain.
We took his food; leave him to vultures and crows.”
They turned to go; the pilgrim raised his voice,
Something compelled him, compassion that grows:

“My friends,” he called, making an earnest choice,
“You have my bread, but I see deeper need.
Your eyes speak troubles—can we not rejoice
In finding common solace though we bleed?
I too have walked through sorrows and through strife;
If you will listen, I offer a creed.”
They paused, amused perhaps by captive life,
To humor him or bored upon the road.
He seized the moment to defuse their knife.
He spoke of a city where love bestowed
And exiles and strangers were welcome all,
Where one’s past misdeeds no longer corrode.

He saw in their stances some anger stall,
The younger looked down shame-faced at his blade.
“Many a man,” said pilgrim, “has heard the call
To start again despite mistakes he’s made.
If hunger drives you, there are kinder ways
Than taking from others in fear’s charade.
You have strength and wit—perhaps this displays
You could protect rather than prey upon.
Come with me forward; see if hope conveys.”
They muttered among them: trust not yet drawn,
But seeds of doubt in their path had been sown.
Finally, scar-face grunts, “our time is gone.”

They left him alive, perplexed and windblown,
Heading elsewhere as pilgrim watched them pass.
He sighed, wishing grace had been more clearly shown.
Not every soul is ready to amass
The insight to turn from violence to grace.
Some require time or further horrors amass.
He prayed softly for each bandit’s soul space,
That one day their hunger too find the light,
Then resumed journey at an even pace.
Over crags and high valleys tinted slight
With autumn’s palette he wandered long,
Helping as he could each suffering wight.

He tended the lost, guided with a song
A crazed soldier away from a cliff’s edge,
Shared his cloak with a widow night wind strong,
Spoke calming word to a youth with raw dredge
Of nightmares from battles he’d fled afar.
To each person he gave from wisdom’s hedge
One leaf of truth to heal their inner scar.
Some scoffed or ignored, but many a face
Lit with faint hope as though seeing a star.
And even when progress seemed slow in pace,
Each act of kindness lit two lives at least—
The giver and receiver share one grace.

Yet the valley’s trials had not yet ceased.
As he entered a gorge of red-stone walls,
A swirl of dust forewarned nature not pleased.
The earth groaned low and sudden darkness falls—
A rockslide! Boulders from on high cascade.
The pilgrim barely jumps as death befalls.
Stones crash behind him in a roaring raid,
Trapping him in the gorge with no retreat.
Forward the only path now he must wade.
With staff in hand, he moved wounded feet,
Checking for fractures, but seemed all intact,
Saved for bruises and cuts minor concrete.

He thanked providence for life’s continued tact
And pressed on through narrow canyon’s heart,
Cliffs looming close as if heavens they propped.
The path grew dim; high walls a roof impart
That only noon’s sun could briefly pervade.
In gloom he walked like wandering in art
Of Caravaggio—darkness with light bade
Only at edges where a hope glimmers.
He thought of Plato’s cave and those who stayed,
Chained in shadow, mistaking flicker for whispers.
How different this canyon where he chose to roam
Armed with inner light, though night shivers.

At a bend, he found an old man alone,
Collapsed by the wall, breathing faint and hard.
Rushing forth, the pilgrim in gentle tone
Checked for wounds and gave water from his gourd.
The old man’s eyes opened milky and wide,
His garb tattered, he clearly traveled far.
“Water…” he croaked; the pilgrim did provide,
Lifting the flask to cracked lips of white.
After slow sips, he regained some pride.
“Thank you,” he said, voice raspy as midnight.
He tried to stand, faltered—our friend held fast.
“Rest, father,” said the pilgrim, “no need for might.”

Tears from the elder’s eyes fell thick and fast.
“Not father… just a fool chasing folly.
I left my home for treasure unsurpassed.
I have nothing—ambition ate me wholly.
If not for you, I’d perish in this hell.”
The pilgrim saw guilt o’er his face like ivy.
“All paths teach,” he said, “and mistakes do tell
What truly matters to heart and spirit.
Your life yet is spared; thus use it well.”
The old man wept, “I chased a myth, a writ
In ancient text of a relic divine—
The Sword of Solomon, if one could find it,

Would grant dominion o’er life’s design,
Wisdom and power beyond mortal ken.
I lost companions, spent fortunes supine,
Seeking that blade through mountain and glen.
And now, empty-handed, near death I lie,
My quest in ruin, memory a fen.”
He coughed, and the pilgrim wiped tears dry.
“Gently, friend,” he soothed, “your value’s not lost
Though false treasure lured your years to die.
The wisdom you sought cannot be exhaust
From an object or single secret lore;
It lives in each trial and tempest crossed.”

The man sighed, “My life wasted and deplore;
I left my family, my children grown old
Without their father—what was it all for?”
“Perhaps,” said pilgrim, “the story untold
Is not over yet. You breathe, thus you live.
Return home, mend bonds, let love you enfold.”
The old man nodded weakly, hope a sieve
But slowly refilling drop by drop.
“I shall try if strength and fortune give.”
The pilgrim gave bread and stayed until stop
Of day, when old man felt enough renewed.
Together they left canyon at sun’s drop.

Parting at crossroads, the elder subdued
Thanked the pilgrim as if an angel came.
Each resumed journey by destiny’s feud.
Our pilgrim onward, the valley to tame,
Climbed out of gorge to plateaus ahead,
Where rumor spoke of lands savage with flame.
He steeled himself, remembering the red
Shawl with golden threads, in case of dire need—
Though not yet invoked, it stayed in his stead.
The valley of trials still held more deed:
He entered a plain where two armies massed,
Banners of hatred driving each stampede.

Caught in between, he saw spears in contrast,
A battle impending for reasons lost—
Old grudges, new slights, the die had been cast.
Villagers fled before blades were crossed;
He ran to a hillock to better view,
Heart pounding for blood about to be tossed.
Though no warrior, he felt he must do
What he could to prevent the coming fray.
But what can one man against war pursue?
As horns blared and both sides formed array,
He recalled the shawl of sky with gold sown—
The mystic gift for despair’s darkest day.

Surely, preventing slaughter’s thunder blown
Was cause to invoke whatever power
Lay in that garment by sages known.
He took cover behind an ancient tower,
Now ruined, on that hill between the hosts,
And drew from pack the blue shawl at hour.
Unfurling its length, embroidered with ghosts
Of symbols arcane, stars and swirling flames,
He wrapped it ‘round his shoulders as war looms close.
He stepped forth, heart praying in all great names
Of the Beloved across creeds and lands:
“One Light, guide me that hate I may tame.”

Down the slope he walked with upraised hands,
Between armies now charging with fell cry.
A surreal sight—one man against war’s bands.
At first none noticed in battle-high,
Then those at front saw a figure calm,
Thinking perhaps some sorcerer is nigh.
Arrows loosed from nervous archers’ palm,
But strangely, each shaft curved away mid-flight,
As if a wind of heaven made them qualm.
The blue shawl glimmered now with inner light,
Each golden thread like filaments aflame,
Forming a halo brightening the dire sight.

Both sides faltered as wonder overcame—
Superstitious dread that gods took part.
The pilgrim seized the moment in proclaim:
“Brothers! Sisters! Why tear each other apart?
What demon or false fear drives you to kill?
What sacred life can your sword re-start?”
His voice rang out, preternaturally shrill,
Amplified by shawl’s enchantment bestowed,
Echoing off hills, the battle to still.
The combatants, bewildered, dropped their goad
A few paces from clash, unsure, amazed
At this lone figure in shimmering load.

He continued, the magic in him blazed:
“Look across: the face of your enemy—
Is it not human, with eyes fear-razed,
With heart that can bleed and dreams that can be?
What do you defend that by slaughter gained
Will not curse your children’s legacy?
Every life lost, each soul by hate stained,
Summons a grief that never will depart—
Even victors are by their violence pained.
Lay down your arms, listen with your heart:
The Beloved has made all in one mold,
What you do to another, to yourself you impart.”

Some dropped their weapons, others yet hold,
But none advanced as conscience took root.
Then murmurs as leaders sought to be bold—
Two generals rode out to quell dispute.
They met in center near where pilgrim stood,
Scowling at each other in pride’s salute.
“Who are you,” one barked, “who in our war intrude?
Sorcerer, saint or demon? By what right
Do you meddle in our people’s feud?”
The other growled, “We fight for sacred right,
Our cause is just, this fool best stand aside,
Or by our blades he too shall feel their bite.”

The pilgrim drew a breath, pushed fear aside,
His shawl’s glow flickered as doubt grazed his mind—
But he anchored in faith to stem that tide.
“In truth, I am no more than human kind,
A wanderer who has seen much sorrow.
No sorcerer nor warrior you’ll find.
My right to speak is love, to peace avow.
If your cause be just, test it against this:
Can it stand in dialogue come tomorrow?
If enmity is ancient, dare to dis
Instead of bodies, break hatred itself,
Find common stories where now trust amiss.”

The soldiers looked restless, the generals elf-
Like cunning tried to exploit the crowd’s lull.
One sneered: “His tongue bewitches like a sylph.
Hear me, warriors! This trick is a gull
To rob you of glory and righteous pride.”
Some men roared approval, senses dull.
The pilgrim realized words might slide
Off hardened hearts drunk on promised reward.
Perhaps demonstration must coincide.
He remembered lessons in city stored—
How they lit one flame from many a creed,
And from emptiness synergy is poured.

He asked each general, “Do you believe in God or creed?
One said ‘I honor Mars, god of war’s strife.’
The other: ‘I worship justice indeed.’
Then to both, pilgrim bowed, no hint of knife:
“Then swear by whatever it is you adore
That your cause is worth this spilling of life.
If truly divine sanction you implore,
Then let that divine give judgement here.
Consent to a truce for just one day more.
Meet in parley, let each your case make clear,
Without arrow or sword, let the truth guide.
If war still you choose, then resume your drear.

But if this be folly, your wrath misguided,
Better to sheath swords than mothers to weep.”
The armies muttered, divided, undecided.
At last one captain, from silence deep,
Spurred horse forward, middle-aged, battle-scarred.
“I’ve seen enough blood and shallow heap.
My brother died under our own bombard
Last year, all for a scrap of barren land.
This stranger speaks sense, though hope comes hard.
I’ll stand down arms and open a hand,
To talk before more sons and daughters fall.
I urge all leaders to meet his demand.”

A cheer from some throats at this rebel call,
And grumbles from others still bent on fight,
But the momentum shifted towards sprawl.
The generals, pressured by men’s weary sight,
Conceded to talk under flag of truce.
Day’s battle was stayed, at least for the night.
The pilgrim sighed in relief at the sluice
Of adrenaline drained, body now weak.
The magic shawl dimmed as urgency loosed.
Soldiers set camp near, exchanging wary speak,
But no blood spilled and fires were shared.
Small signs of trust began there to leak.

One soldier brought pilgrim water and bread,
Curious what manner of man he was.
Another asked for a blessing on dead.
They treated him oddly with fond applause
Mixed with respectful distance, as if saint.
He disavowed special favor because
He said the Light is in all without taint;
What he did, any soul can if they choose
Courage and love to let hatred grow faint.
That night around campfires, news diffuse
That a wanderer halted war by magic,
Stories grew tall as fear did excuse.

But the pilgrim slept apart, feeling tragic
That war was not over, only delayed.
He prayed unity might quell conflict’s logic,
But knew the morning’s parley was unmade.
Before dawn, he quietly left that site,
Hoping seeds of peace among them were laid.
His path now led up a mountain great height—
For beyond these armies a range he saw,
Likely the route to his next fate aright.
Though bone-tired, he climbed as new day daw,
Turning back once to witness rising sun
Shine on mingled tents where foes withdraw.

It gave him hope that hatred might be undone
When courage and wisdom in one are spun.
Thus closed the trials of the valley dun,
The pilgrim battered but soul victories won,
Heading now upwards to meet tomorrow’s sun.