Read quickly, this is a puzzle: a few broken scraps of sentence that seem to start in the middle and end with a flat statement, "I was born." The speaker seems to be tracing their own beginning, but not through a tidy account. Instead we get a moth, a mess, a "citizen of pretense," and a mother, all tangled together without clear logic.
The feeling is slippery and a little wry. The moth suggests something small, drawn toward light and prone to causing trouble, and the phrase "citizen of pretense" hints at a world of play-acting and talk. Judging by the way the lines break off, birth seems to arrive almost as an afterthought, a plain fact landing after all the muddle. The mood is dreamlike and unsettled, but also quietly amused. The title points toward myth and music, yet the poem itself stays small and strange, as if the speaker's origins were too messy to tell in order.