A poet says in his polished verse
A history is too late to be written
Of moth’s stupidity about candle.
We laugh at accounts of stupidity
A mortal whisper ,death by flame
A moth embraces on rainy night.
We are both a candle and a moth
Whispering death-words in wind.
We tend to flame as if to infinity.
(on reading the poem Account by CZESLAW MILOSZ)