There goes that feather. The wind has barely blown and that feather, yet again, floats through the sky. It soars through the heavens to and fro like the hands of an orchestra conductor conducting a soft and gentle song. It’s so care free. It just goes wherever the wind traverses it. Eventually it stops and gently falls to the ground, but only for a while because soon life shall movie it some place else.
It goes with the flow, not knowing what the future may bring. It can’t choose it’s own fate. God controls this carefree object; like a puppeteer controlling puppets. After numerous translocations, the feathers time nears. All of heaven cries the weight of the world on the feather; it falls, withers, and dies.
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