On a hot and humid summer’s night
many winged things take flight,
though none but the firefly
gives off light, shining briefly
like a lighthouse lantern,
piercing the darkness
for only a moment, retreating then
into the monochromatic world
of the evening sky,
where all the other winged things fly.
This is the lot of the firefly,
that though there is peace
in the night’s reply
of enveloping darkness
within which and whereby
the small winged bug
may peacefully fly,
it cannot don twilight forever;
the firefly must shine,
regardless of whether
its will and its nature align,
it must, until it has withered
and turned to dust,
shine for the sake
of all winged things,
which revel in the light it brings.
