Moths crowd a brightly burning bulb
Believing it the Sun
They fly too close
And waxed wings melt
Burnt bodies fall
Alas for foolish Icarus

Are we so different
Chasing our gilded trinkets
Empty of all substance
Believing them happiness
Grasping after red molten iron
Never seeing all grasping-wanting-craving
Will but melt fragile wings
Alas for us
Alas for foolish Icarus

© All Rights Reserved