Almighty forces, stronger than desire,
will take each creeping thing, and speak of sleep -
constructing slumber’s shell so bleak and deep,
as if to make of tiny life a pyre.
But while inside, what dreams shall insects crave -
and if they dream, what memory shall pass
to life anew, of crawling in the grass?
A new creation rises from the grave.
Emerging to a new and glorious form,
the loss of memory shall quell surprise;
they master wings in instants, and arise
beneath a fleeting sky a while made warm.
Like them, my life becomes to death a dirge;
and neither of us knows how we’ll emerge.