Serge Lyrewing Poet Lyric

Moth

Deepest blue of your eyes, shoulders covered with pitch
of your hair, little moth, I can't tempt you, I preach
My illusions and dreams, there is tremble of palm,
And my fire in chest is so wrong, I am numb.

Little moth, little moth, oh, desirable lips,
I have flown to the sky, Heaven's empty, it tips
me to be not so glad. I have smelt scent of dreams,
I was fond of you so just one moment it seems.

I am strange I'm unseen and I laugh at myself
And my mark can't be found in the grass. You're my wealth:
Deepest blue of your eyes, shoulders covered with pitch
of your hair, little moth, I can't tempt you, I preach.

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