the incandescent moth,
born flying with maddened joy
towards the light...
heart purified by weeping,
healed by childlike wonder.
mind searching every crevice
for every dram of truth.
soul bearing the marks of the whip,
childlike hands that dare to touch.
a river bent on giving,
the moth, closer and closer still,
till wings become the dust of angels,
spread at the feet of beginning and end!
And doomed to die in the heat of that incandescent light, good work.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Really like this, a fantastic poem.