Answer:
Hard to catch, easy to hold. Can't be seen, unless it's cold.
A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky. Atop a tender strand, rising from the land, until killed by maiden's hand. Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye.
Two brothers we are, great burdens we bear. All day we are bitterly pressed. Yet this I will say, we are full all the day, and empty when go to rest.
Power enough to smash ships and crush roofs. Yet it still must fear the sun.
A red drum which sounds without being touched, and grows silent, when it is touched.
What never gets any wetter no matter how hard it rains?