The ants do march in perfect lines,
Never straying from their ranks,
Marching down the countryside.
Marching through the riverbank;
The ants do march.
From foreign lands, they scavenge scraps:
Ants can only carry crumbs.
They march miles for this crap,
Carrying it to the beat of drums—
Scraps to survive.
The Queen they serve commands them well,
Or so they chant as they climb.
“Praise her! Praise her!” they all yell;
She hears their screams as they die:
She stays inside.
The ranks do break when the foot falls,
Drones cry, trails lost, queens forgotten.
At the fog of chemicals,
Faith and life fled, hand in hand.
Run to the bank.
The survivors march the next day;
The dead lie on their backs, unburied;
New ants birthed to join the fray;
New ants find dead, unworried:
Ants know their fate.
March all day and march all night—
Out in the world, may you thrive.
March with courage and march with might—
Trading precious crumbs for your lives.
Hardworking ants,
I wish you life,
Though I have stepped on many ants in my time.
Comments