Runaway Parade

Musings of a Chorus of Ants


March 16, 2013

The farmer was swilling
cold water flavoured w/ tar
from a black skingoat.
A chorus of black ants
was still working &
singing silently,
[in fact, stridulating their
monotonous squeaky
during his break.
What a tune!
he said & his dream
of the harvest grew
bigger than before.
What a tune!
he said.
What a spackle for
my paramnesia!

he said.
I was about to return
to my hut gazebo
& take a rest,
he said.
Oh, labourious ants!
You are really musing
he said
Labour, harvest, sweat, wheat
Labour, harvest, sweat, wheat
What a refrain!
& work became sweet
when surrounded by ants—
engineers of the rite of passage
to the sacredness of work.

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