One dawn the flies rose to heaven’s gate,
their fragile wings were heavy with desire.
“Grant us the name the moths await,
let us be creatures the night admires.”
The divine voice thundered, calm and slow
“Seek every flame till the sun appears.
Return at dawn with the lights you know,
and I shall weigh what your worth declares.”
The flies went forth through the velvet deep,
from trembling candles on windowsills,
to lanterns small that the breezes keep,
they counted each glow on the darkened hills.
At dawn they came with a numbered hoard,
their wings dusted bright in a borrowed glow.
“We have gathered them all,” they proudly roared,
“See how full our night has grown.”
But silence lingered, the heavens stayed still,
till a voice like a whisper broke the sky
“And where are the moths who obeyed my will?
Why do they not return, fly?”
The answer drifted through shadowed air,
ashes lay quiet beneath one flame.
The moths had found their altar there,
and burned for love without a name.
The flies had gathered the scattered light,
but moths gave all to a single fire.
Their wings were consumed yet their vow held bright
such is the madness of the soul’s desire.
