The mind and wing

A small bug walks just like a thief, It does not know pain, it does not know grief. It does not ask, “Why am I here?” It lives its life without a fear. The bug runs when the light is strong, But it forgets—it moves alone. It does not think of life or death, It only feels the light, the breath. But I have thoughts inside my mind, Of things I lost, of time and time. I ask too much, I feel too deep, Even fear comes into sleep. The bug is free—it lives, then ends, No dreams, no past, no need to pretend. But I carry all I know, And that makes my life feel slow. Maybe the bug is closer to peace, It lives, it dies, and all will cease. But I, who think and dream and try, Fear to live—and fear to die.