When the moth flies drained of all her feelings
Flight weakens her wings, all that is cherished
Wings dry like powder, caught in a stale breeze
Powder falls up and out, tender this does make
When wings doth carry the weight of the world
Flight makes heavy the silken frame of love
Then a heart is weaken from yesterdays flight
The moth is easily burnt by the fire of a lovelorn
The moth takes a once in a lifetime chance flight
There are no strings to this puppet of lost thoughts
Heat rises, but where there is a cold heart in view
One falls clear of emotions, but not a burning candle
When a slow sinking takes to the depths of feelings
Strike a match and give life to the candle with flame
Offer roses of twenty for thirdy seconds of wild and red
The moth lands on a bud, yet to glory for praising luck?
When the moth flies high and touches the lunar edge
Kissed in morning dew drops, Mother taught Ye to flutter
The powder dries quick, bide your time upon the rocks
Don't fly low to this candle's flame, for burnt Ye shall be!