Against the glass it beats its wings
and hungers for the glowing flame.
It clashes, flutters, then it flings
itself again, repeats the same.
The moth will never cease its fight
to reach the blaze of burning light.
It does not know, like any fool,
that fields beyond are still and cool.
[this is an Italian form called a rispetto]
YOU ARE READING
Apart From Worldly Things
Poesiacollection of poetry, both rhyming forms and free verse
