Swift
is thought,
desires brought,
which once rested
remain dormant till
our desires resurrect,
propelled by ego craving,
having deep roots in delusion,
seeking to make permanent our joy,
within the world of transience, external.
Circling around, trying to catch its tail,
we are amused by our dogs antics
although we are no different,
looking for a pot of gold
at end of the rainbow;
a mere illusion
in yonder sky,
destined to
vanish
soon.