01/21/2025
The wind, his constant, now a mournful sigh,
The nomad sleeps, beneath an endless sky.
His tent, a canvas, draped against the sand,
A final shelter, in this barren land.
He dreamt of rivers, flowing swift and free,
Of verdant fields, for all eternity.
But dreams dissolve, as life begins to fade,
A whisper on the wind, a fading shade.
He wonders now, with spirit taking flight,
Will he return, as eagle, strong and bright?
Or as a gazelle, fleet across the plain,
Forever free from hunger, cold, and rain?
Perhaps a hawk, with vision keen and sharp,
Soaring above, leaving no earthly mark.
Or will he bloom, a flower, fragile, rare,
A fleeting beauty, beyond all earthly care?
The nomad waits, with questions left unsaid,
His journey ending, where the spirits tread.
Awaiting rebirth, in some unknown guise,
Beneath the ever-changing, endless skies.