Since that first morning when I crawled into the world, a naked grubby thing, and found the world unkind, my dearest faith has been that this is but a trial: I shall be changed. In my imaginings I have already spent my brooding winter underground, unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbed into the air, free as a puff of cloud to sail over the steaming fields, alighting anywhere I pleased, thrusting into deep tubular flowers.
It is not so: there may be nectar in those cups, but not for me. All day, all night, I carry on my back embedded in my flesh, two rows of little white cocoons, so neatly stacked they look like eggs in a crate. And I am eaten half away.
If I can gather strength enough I'll try to burrow under a stone and spin myself a purse in which to sleep away the cold; though when the sun kisses the earth again, I know I won't be there. Instead, out of my chrysalis will break, like robbers from a tomb, a swarm of parasitic flies, leaving my wasted husk behind.
Sir, you with the red snippers in your hand, hovering over me, casting your shadow, I greet you, whether you come as an angel of death or of mercy. But tell me, before you choose to slice me in two: Who can understand the ways of the Great Worm in the Sky?