And then the mighty wind stopped, when it caught a crimson leaf;
Howling in a former rage, had come to change its belief.
The wind murmured another blow, towards a waterfall;
Drenched the leaf with colors, of love and all.
A pure and fresh drizzle, smelling lavender of another kind;
Holding its colors, but source of respite was tough to find.
The blows now slowed down, a silence of some sort;
The mighty wind had puffed lavender in retort.
The leaf kept swirling, in mixed beliefs it bred;
New colors emerging, to what is meant and what is said.