Who queries a flame\'s origin—
The wood, its burning slave,
Or the eyes that cannot fully grasp
What memory seeks to save?
Here—a speck among the soot—
A moth\'s frantic, futile sway
Around the deceptive purity of light,
Its life a brief ballet.
Just a sequence of spasms, agitations—
In the glittering heat soon to pass.
The upsurge of ash, a transient ghost
Before surrendering to the cold, vast mass.
Striving, then settling into the abyss—
The cycle of life, an elusive flash,
Dwelling in the aftermath of warmth
Becomes the finest of ash.