The breeze that brushes your skin

with divine serenity it bears;

The shoes of tender leaves

when they sway in the spotlight of the sun;

The gift of rain

when one sits in peace with the drops;

The very one element

that meets you first in both spheres.

Who doesn’t loathe storms?

Storms that tease you

to shake hands with the reaper;

The friction

that stops a carefree soul;

The witch’s poisoned apple.

The color one abhors.

The key to the door of fear.

But,

Both sprout from the same tree,

When one topples down

Other marvels up

Only a novice lifts their chin

blinking in awe, while

The other sinks in ignorance

Without realizing,

The other sank

Masking the bliss of condolence.