Wings of Fate

 A moth fluttered
by the star lit lake,
circling fireflies
like little orbiting suns

 The god watched.
The angel watched.
So did the Fates,
spinning time between their fingers.

  One of Fates then leaned forward to the moth—
"Why are you still here?"
the question slipped through the night
like a whisper on the wind

 The angel felt something stir—
the kind of knowing
you don’t learn from books.

 The moth’s time
was up
The threads had been tied.

 So the angel said to God,
“I’m taking my leave.”
and God smiled.
.

 The angel swept the moth
beneath his wings,
flew fast—
faster than prophecy,
past mountains,
marshes,
rivers that no longer had names,
to a forest
tucked behind the hush of the seventh continent.

 He placed the moth
gently in a hollow tree
and whispered,
“Stay hidden until the fates forget you.”

 Then he flew back,
heart racing,
lungs burning,
to the lake where the fireflies still danced.

The Fates watched him,
an odd glint in their eyes.
Uneasy, he turned to one—
“Why did you ask the moth that?”

The fate shrugged,
Half lost in the glow of the insects—
“She was meant to die in a wildfire
in the seventh continent.
I was just wondering
why she hadn’t left yet.
She’d never have made it in time.”

And just like that,
the fate turned back
to watch fireflies.

In a tree trunk
in a forest
on a continent far away—
a fire burned.

 And inside it,
a moth
curled and quiet
turned to ash.

The Fates watched.
God smiled.
The angel–
cried.

.
.
.
.
Note - This used to be one of my bedtime stories when I was little—fragments of it, at least. I don’t remember much of the original, but it stayed with me in feeling, not form. I’ve taken creative liberties to retell what I think it might have been. It’s not plagiarism, just a personal remembering.