The moth who has his wings charred black by flame,
Do I admire him for being burned?
Would Icarus again choose just the same,
Though all he touched were harsh seas as they churned?

How right it is, we’re so destroyed by heat,
When we so dearly seek the warmth and light;
Though those who picture life so small and fleet,
Believe mistakenly gentle night.

Eyes turned in search for glow of distant stars
Find just Selene upon her silver throne.
The pricks of luminescence seen afar?
Like marking graves, sky filled with shining stone.
Upon close look, it’s found to their anguish,
Each holds two words: I wish... I wish... I wish...