Lying on my mattress, I listen intently to the singular murmur of water flowing above, on the Adrar plateau. This night is, as always, of pure and silent beauty. The Adrar cliff rises, an immense mineral fortress, above me, dominating with majesty the valley — el bâten, in Hassaniya — and this forest of Tazazmout, where acacias, balanites and capers defiantly challenge the aridity of the Mauritanian Sahara.

To the north, the dunes of the Makteir erg obstruct the horizon, motionless in their shifting eternity. Yet, each grain of sand, a tireless traveler, pursues its inexorable journey westward, pushed by the harmattan winds, towards the Atlantic Ocean it may one day reach in some distant future.

In early October, a storm rumbles to the south. Lightning tears across the sky in a thousand flashes, intermittently revealing the silhouettes of distant ridges. Beside me, she sleeps, deeply and peacefully, as if the power of the elements were merely a gentle lullaby.

It rains no doubt on the vast reg of Azilal, north of Wadane. This year, the autumn rains have arrived, generous yet capricious, scattered like hidden treasure. The guelb er Richat, with its perfect circles, shelters between each rîch mysterious lakes that the rain awakens in secret.

The intertropical front slides southward, announcing the approach of winter and cooler air. Here, beneath this boundless sky, all is but eternal recurrence, a slow and patient dance where the desert chains its infinite cycles.

I cherish these intense moments when my spirit takes flight, when the world seems suspended between the raw force of nature and the serenity of these Saharan nights.