Circling the halo of candlelight,
night moths dance in wretched repetition.
These reincarnated spirits from Buddha’s kingdom can’t recall
the insects already dead, the leaves yet to die.
Moths are said to be napping kinfolk,
soaring across steep mountains, soaring across cloudy trees,
to soothe us in our misfortunes.
Or else the dead ones who miss us,
pulled by memories, returning from the hushed netherworld.
But I see myself in the moths,
for their colorful vast velvety wings
have overtaken my shadow,
abandoned it in grave darkness.
All for one conviction, not a fantasy,
but that day I became a phoenix.