It came down like a charging bullet. But to the naked eye, it seemed rather delicate.
It came crashing down on entities below. But to them, it felt like a soft touch.
Moving in all directions, in complete havoc. But noticed as gentle criss-cross motion.
Sometimes wet, sometimes dry. It crusades the sky.
Detached from its owner. A feather flies.
The feather, soft like the snow. Seems to fall down gently in tune to the breeze.
But who knows how it feels? Or maybe we never tried.
How it feels exactly, like a gentle sailor? Or like a storm-ridden ship in the rough seas?
How little time does it take to make waivered assumptions about the things around. And long does it take to understand the truth, which lies deep down.
