Who loathes breeze?
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.