What drives this life that lives itself through us,
If not awakening's ruthless urge pushing us along?
Our thought-machine hardly gets a break,
Unless temporarily on hold or out of order.
Worries and wants flow without a pause,
Like water from a faucet with a broken handle.
Eventually, all the fuss wears itself out or just winds down,
As we're steeped in the silence of our inner garden.