Flame

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)

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