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Poem: Confined in freedom

How strange is the plight of humans,
Who spend years in self-confinement, Convincing their reasoning mind to wait for eternity, Before relishing the imagined moment, Where happiness awaits in abundance.
Multitude of such moments, They live in, unaware, Are moments like the ordinary, Where happiness seeks no yearning to readily bloom.
- The Last Nomad
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Poem: Bloom

Vibrant flowers, Fall on the ground, As their sweet fragrance escapes into thin air, And intricate being becomes earth again. Memories we caress by framing their pictures, And reminiscing their scent, While the tree is ecstatic, With a thousand blooming buds.
- The Last Nomad

Poem: Unsold art

Year after year, Staring at hundreds of paintings hung in decorated frames, Basking in the glamour of handsome patronage, He wondered what made people buy art, And why his paintings never found their rightful collector. Devoid of their thick coat of affluence, The art buyers were everything but interesting.
All he dreamt of that night were empty frames, Hung on trees and burning bright. Startled, he rushed onto the streets in search of flaming trees, And all he found was a woman at the traffic signal, With a basketful of unsold earthen toys.



- The Last Nomad