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