In a field, I sit on the ground
Beside me rests an anthill, and in it work the ants
They scurry restlessly in their little swarms, working together for food and survival
And I leave them be, and they hardly notice me.

Until one day, when I’m lying the grass, taking in the sun, a lone ant wanders onto my hand
I notice it. I look at its tiny ant mouth and its tiny ant mind.
It looks so lost without its people, without its society, its world.
For a second, I think the and looks into my eyes, and we lock in a mutual gaze.
But that’s silly. It’s an ant, and I’m a human.
I let it back on the ground, and it hurries back home to its ant family.

But that was a mistake.
The very next day, as I lie in the same spot, a group of the tiny ant comes to visit me.
It’s even possible that the ant from the day before is among them, but I wouldn’t know;
all ants are the same.
They try climb onto my hand, but where one ant was mild, a group is irritating, and I try push them off.

But there are just so many of them
And they just keep coming
They come in their little groups
Then in their swarms
And the field that was once mine is being claimed by the ants.

Until one day, I’ve had enough
I gather some sticks and some flint
And ignite the anthill.
A whole world burning in front of me.
It’s all their fault.
Don’t they know this field belongs to me?

The flames settle, and the wind blows away the ash.
The anthill is gone
And nothing is left.

And I rest in peace.

7.VII.21