O my dear, moth-like soul!
He seeks an undiscovered Sun.
He aims himself at skies
feeble wings have never flown.
What can be done?
Despondent and dejected
he turns from the Infinite
ponders his privations
laments his limits
makes his plaint.
And thus I turned myself
to the deepest and darkest places.
to a night so black
it is an ink that stains my soul.
Such that someday,
as I fly, idly along,
I may encounter but a single spark
and ken the secrets of glory.
He seeks an undiscovered Sun.
He aims himself at skies
feeble wings have never flown.
What can be done?
Despondent and dejected
he turns from the Infinite
ponders his privations
laments his limits
makes his plaint.
And thus I turned myself
to the deepest and darkest places.
to a night so black
it is an ink that stains my soul.
Such that someday,
as I fly, idly along,
I may encounter but a single spark
and ken the secrets of glory.