O lovey moth!

O lovely moth!
who every dusk
strives for his moon
with the same hope
as the night before.

Her silver light
is your treasure;
the stars, your diamonds;
each flame, a flowing gold.

The ache in your wings
is fond communion;
the wind in your eyes, a kiss;
every fire, a luminous doorway
you leave the cloak of self beside.

O master of search
and paragon of love!
knower of ends
and prince of journeys!

Eyes lit ablaze —
now ash upon the breeze —
you float to such heavens
as you always knew could be.