We are born with wings of thread,
fragile, flickering—
a heartbeat away from dust.
Our lives are measured not in days,
but in chances—
to taste heaven.
We do not feed.
We seek.
The warmth of skin.
The pulse beneath.
The nectar hidden in the body of giants.
And though they hate us,
swat us,
curse us—
still we come.
Not from greed.
From worship.
For one drop of blood,
we give our lives without regret.
We know:
our time is brief.
But in that instant—
that rush of fire and red—
we are eternal.
We are not pests.
We are pilgrims.
And in their blood,
we find the divine.