Scurrying about like the insects beneath their feet
Seeking money and food in an impermanent life
Most of the time many as oblivious as the insects
to their transience. Who wants to ponder expirations?
A death here, a death there, but only other people
And too busy, too preoccupied with worldly things
To stop and wonder about their inevitable demise,
As they scurry about seeking money and food
Things they hold dearer than eternal truths.

Bob Boyd