I know the moth,
I have seen it drawn towards the signal fire.
But it’s the same place from where it is coming…
Everything is the same, everything is filled with abandoned transformations.
The amplified desolations all around…the mountains sleep with rejection from eternity…
‘ if I am done, I want to be done by my own ignorance and by my own detachments’
these were the words of a slave before dying.
Now there’s something about the words… something like a blurred neon,
like a winter evening in a tired town,
like a misery of an old traveler.
I have seen the moth,
it constantly tries to love and thrive even before leaping into the deepness of brutal blaze.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Paul Strand.