Although they’ve much in common: fear of night,
fear of the hour-glass’s falling sands,
he traps a fleeting moth inside his hands
as it departs the darkness for the light.
It beats its wings in an impassioned fight
to force its way out, willfully demands
its freedom. But the power that commands
his own will—is unmindful of its plight.
He holds it fast, as if intent to show
that all depends upon the power’s whim,
that if he dares to squeeze, or lets it go,
no wrathful god will judge or punish him.
Yet when his hands unfold, his conscience stings:
the powdery, white flakes—were once its wings.
Leo Yankevich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moth-6/
