There was once a Moth whom the other moths dismissed as a hopeless dreamer.
Every evening when the candles were lit, all the moths - except one - flew straight for the light, fluttering around the dancing flames, drawn to the warm, glowing brilliance and totally oblivious to the dangers they risked until, that is, their bodies became charred and their wings were singed and caught fire.
One by one the moths would immolate and fall to the ground in tiny heaps of ash, except for the Moth who was a dreamer. He was never seduced by the candle-flames because he was drawn to another light: the pale, cold, creamy-blue disc of the moon which slowly crossed the sky and which the Moth, entranced, would watch through the glass of the windowpane.
Each night new moths would appear and rush towards the candles and certain death, while the dreamer Moth fluttered up and down against the glass, gazing at the moon and wishing that a day would come when he might find a way to fly to the beautiful pale light in the velvet-black night sky.
Of course, he never achieved his dream, but at least he knew what it was to dream; and, at any rate, he lived a good deal longer than any of the other moths…
© Brian Sibley 2006
Read more of Brian's Fables and Likely Tales in 'Just Stories'.