Hope Love and Despair

Hope-that unfathomable ocean of bliss that our heart chokes itself into, that evanescence, the dream of which, buoys the destitute in many an abyss, which whispers faith into the mind of a dying to cheat fate, and also that which had kept Rashid walking. Who was he? And when would he stop?
Those were questions that did not matter. Not even to him. His throat felt like a dead bird's gizzard flaming in perpetual heat. His parsed lips were a starker incarnation of lifelessness than the starker ones in the grave. His soul-robbed, life-quenched body betrayed glimpses of energy.
Energy, each quart of which he ardently pumped to his precarious steps. A snake of footprints, that would be last tinctures of this frailty trailed from him to somewhere inconceivably far. The Thar had taken more than a toll. It did not smack its hideous dry lips just because another prey would yield up his exorcised life. But it did so with all the more devilry because when the spiked sun-cursed chains would finally perforate his fading soul his hope would also be butchered. And the hungry desert would want this. Because this hope was obstinacy personified. In the wake of the dark hand of fate knocking at his door Rashid was hell-bent on one thing- he would not keep the bag down. What was in it? But this mattered to him. More than anything else. He was tottering to a side now and then on the brink of bumping into a rock the next moment- but he wouldn't keep the bag down. The few cacti that had shot up as mocking witnesses to this slow and sure hunt seemed to taunt Rashid. Rashid cursed them summoned Allah which seemed to stir up some of the staling ruddy drops and he walked on. Bone scorching heat and blood freezing cold had taken their full turns to snub him. But he wouldn't give up. What prize did he believe he would discover if he reached his elusive destination. Was it a treasure? For reasons untold he believed it was nothing less than that. But the scales infinitesimally in Rashid's favour could be tipped any instant. But he saw something. What was that? It made him rejuvenate his burning throat with false vigour, and give out a cry of pleasure which could also have been a cry of despair. As he reached a spot, one distinctly lower than the surroundings, he placed the bag on the sands with a thud. 'O great flower! Are you hurt?', he murmured to his stricken self and unpacked it. In the midst of this scar-on-earth place, a girl rolled over. Her skin and flesh had partly degenerated, and she was rotting. But one could say she must have been heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Some moments later, Rashid's last scrapes of energy were sipped into creating a small, depression there. The figure was laid with the utmost care as if it were some fragile element of artwork that must never be scathed. Rashid's face lit up. But this time it was true hope...
As I had defined hope- it is again, that feeling which makes a corpse of a lovely girl breathe into her lover's ears, 'Let my body be buried where the Kaaba of our village was once located', even if it was assumed impossible by fate...