Children joyfully play off in the distance
While birds sing their songs all around.
They know no resistance
To the beauty of nature. And so they make sound.

The children, the birds,
They have no concerns.
They know not of how this world is absurd.
It's true; what Wordsworth wants us to learn.

That something as simple and precious as this moth,
Does not receive the attention due to its worth
That we feel too "busy" to be one with the wild
Too busy to live like a child.

We're told we will live forever.
     I am like the moth in a way.
          This moth is slowly dying and will soon fade.
But our lives are short however.
     For we both are in constant decay.
          And so we admire each other, both as moths, together dying in the shade.