In the deep brown autumn of
the night, a shy moth shivered
around the sight of a sun/lamp.
The passive love the moth held in
view could not keep fiery Fate from
burning its wings. For gypsies had
told the rank moth it would have to
mate, and this would kill its song.
The moth shivered and collided with
the lamp, which was not willing anyway.
So it flew away, broken-winged, and sang
subtly at the gypsies' white death in day.
