Ryan Edwards | Written After Watching a Lunar Moth Burn to Death in a Campfire

I am a lowly moth

Flown blind into a flame—

Stitched of emerald cloth

And simple just the same.

Drawn by lustrous beauty,

I danced into the heat,

Now it pulses through me;

No melted wing can beat.

 

So as I am consumed

‘Neath Death’s concealing cloak,

Surely I must be doomed

To vanish in the smoke—

But when the fire is done,

When each ember subsides,

Will I too, then, be gone?

From ash will I not rise?

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