A moth, tiny and innocent,
a shade of yellow that is just
one wash darker than cotton white,
retires upon the drapes
along the window in my room.
Weeks ago when her life began
as a caterpillar, hideous,
the hunger for tender leaves
ruled her then until she could weave
a silken cyst around herself.
There in that hanging cell she grew
her translucent and fragile wings,
a marvel of aeronautics,
to emerge as the harmless moth
that now lies right in front of me.
Since her reemergence, days ago
laying down her fertile eggs had been
the only thing in her simple mind.
Now it seems she is done with that,
both her wings have grown too heavy,
her eggs by then have begun to hatch already
to let her genes live, now she can die in peace.