A moth’s daybreak

by Marco Paschetta

She remained silent, watching the big light slip behind the buildings, at the end of the street. She couldn’t give it a name, but now it was vanishing, leaving behind a reddish halo, stuck between the rigid geometric shapes of the buildings.
But that light had partly remained anchored a few metres above ground, inside small, high, threadlike rooms scattered along the street. Driven by curiosity, she flapped her big brown wings and drew nearer. She wanted to lie down and feel the roundness of that blaze, but every time her flight brought her close to the object of her trouble, something stiff and invisible stopped her.
All night long she stubbornly tried to fly across that colourless wall and all night long she kept on banging her face against it.
The morning after, exhausted by her nocturnal flight and by the vain attempts to reach the light, she lay down on the roof of that strange building.
On her sleepy face, bruises had appeared
that resembled purple flowers
and between them a shy smile.
A memory of the blinding beauty
that hadn’t vanished
at the end of the night.