Firefly

To be, and then to not:

Little wingednesses flout Shakespeare’s paradox.

Like “join the dots”, they pepper the night

With a liminal existence which is and then not.

Yet in wonderment those flecks draw us,

Our eyes chase luminescence, a sure-fire attention-getter

But only when it chooses.

 

For ever has nature lured the artiste in us;

The birdsong finished in poem, the smell of lilies in water painted on canvas,

Though to eyes, its treat has lacked

Because color changes are but few in a year.

But nature’s testimony to the temporal is verified

In these who carry light upon their backs,

And bestow it where and for how long they wish.

 

To the glancer, our awe is apparent,

To the thinker, its manifestation a dilemma births:

What enthralls about them, their willful ability to be or not?

Do we crave an attachment to

Or detachment from existence?

Or is it desire to glow and be seen

And to not, and subtly melt into the blankness of night,

A camouflage of sameness, when we so choose?

 

 

The photograph is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: [ˈpraɦa]

[ˈpraɦa]

 

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