A small flutter in the morning twilight,
Moving along with the tranquil wind.
A set of gossamer wings float and  hover,
A moth's last dance through the mist.

The ebony barked trees loom tall and mighty,
And deep shadows enshroud the bush.
Magic, early light rays glimmer down,
Counting down each the moth's final breaths.

A dewy air of sweet vapour encases,
And clings to the flora of the copse.
The birds sings songs of a suspenseful dawn.
Harmonious is the morn, as the moth lands for rest.

Sing out, you canorous birds, sing out,
Let the gossamer wings dance home on your song.
As the morning mist subsides to a sunny sky,
A life comes to an end, surrender to the dew.

And oh, the moth, she grieves the moon.