If you guess the first three secrets
The fourth is free
Wit is luck achieved
The grub of consciousness
That must be seen to be believed
But it's already become a moth
With colorfully mottled wings
Like the emblem of a great army
Reconnoitering all night
But what can its wings say
About its diet or its sorrow
For its butterfly sister
On the other side of day
Heading for the flames
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