Flying on silent wings and sightless eyes, with bat-like stealth exploring evening skies, hidden high upon a branch of leafy twigs, she fastens to a tree her silver eggs.
Shielded from the elements of nature she thus protects new life, still immature.
Hatched in warm sunlight these will give new birth to wingless life, which crawls upon the earth.
Mere worms, likened to men, they take their feed, devouring every leaf, so like man’s greed.
They spin upon the tree, from silken cloths, large paper-like cocoons, these larval moths.
This form awaits a change much greater than any likened transformation known to man. Then, from a death-like sleep, which nature brings, new life emerges born on powdered wings.
If man could see his fate is likewise lying with such as this, he’d have less fear of dying.
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