Lawrence could wear the robes of an Arab as easy as the trousers of an Englishman.
He could walk through the sandy camps of the Arabs with confidence and assurance that none would gainsay him - he was Lawrence, he was a God in the eyes of many,
for how else could he have accomplished what he had?
But he could also walk through the marble halls of the British Army Offices in Cairo, and be totally ignored, he could slip past unawares and weave a fantastic web from the shadows unnoticed.
Most of all though, Ali noticed, he was neither an Arab; born of the sand and one with fate and God, nor an Englishman; solemn and proper with no care for the independence of Arabia.
He was both and none and when he spoke he did so with a soft voice but with a burning passion that showed in his icy blue eyes.
Underneath the terrific heat and the burning light of the desert he would bloom and shine, be transformed into a warrior,
a leader of power untold but he was balanced as if on the terrific edge of a high cliff,
falling forward into a deep chasm underneath; and if he should fall he would no longer be a God but rather just another piece of sand blowing on the harsh, unforgiving desert wind.
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