.

.

.

I chase love like a nomad chases shelter,

through skin-rippling sand dunes skimming 

the desert's breast.

I hunt for Cupid till my pendulum hits twelve,

and then everything falls silent as if bound

by some wondrous resistance.

Some times, I give up soon like my father,

when my mother's resilience doesn't 

spew magic anymore. 

Yet the heart keeps whispering a fable,

of the eager nomad waiting humbly 

by the oasis's shore.

.

.

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