Upon the pallid night there burned,
A hundred wicks, their fates discerned,
Each flame a siren, softly singing,
To wings of gossamer, swiftly winging.
Oh, luring light! Oh, fatal glow!
Thy warmth belies the sting I know.
What sweetened doom dost thou bestow,
Upon the fragile moth laid low?
Yet still I’m drawn, though reason wanes,
To skies alit with scorching pains.
So many candles, time so fleet,
And shadows whisper of defeat.
Still, let me burn, and let me fly,
If but to taste the blazing sky.
For in my ruin, I have won -
To know the fire, before I'm gone.
