Ever Migrant

My eyes are of nomadic tribes
Never in search of anything in particular
They are two vagabonds like butterflies
The will less ramblers
And drunkards
In a garden of colours and scents
Their motion knows no straight lines
Angles or curvatures
They move I unpredictable directions
In desire less freedom
Like the feet of children
Like the limbs in a dance
Like pure fantasy-
My eyes are not birds
Flying for a destination
They are ever migrant like clouds
Who know no horizons-

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