The moth in my Orchard

As the sun rose to a dreamy morn’
 and the tiny squirrel savoured its acorn,
yet another day was born
much to the midnight’s scorn.

The daisies vivified the orchard,
even as a pyre lurked behind.
Caterpillars, in cocoons bind..
their older siblings, in wings coloured.

The dawn might have its perks,
but as nature has it, the metaphor lurks
in the darkness of that previous night,
when my eyes opened to deep insight.

I shall talk of the moth,
that grabbed my eye in facile.
Owe that to its futile hassle
to get to the pyre, burn in its wrath.

Or maybe that’s all my eye could see,
and more to it, there could be.
Or maybe that’s all I could infer,
blind to the pristine metaphor.

Broke the incessant thought chain,
basked in its vivid silence,
in such solitude, moments hence..
chaos condensed and chose to explain:

“A pity though, the moth is pitied.
A paradox that deserves all pity.
Despite all life and its brevity,
that light was the moth’s prime need.
Ah! It stings to call that greed,
as inferred by a mind en route insanity.
Blind to the pyre’s wrath,
bound to the  fire’s warmth,
docile to the pangs of the pyre,
devoted to the purity of fire.
The fire it has seen,
flew into it, light it has been.”

Wary of all my thoughts, in a morbid quagmire,
this insight of a blind moth, I shall admire.
For, it has taught me:


4 thoughts on “The moth in my Orchard

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