An ant rested on a hill

Under the only segment of sky it could see

And the ant could see but not understand the skies complexity

Alone, in solitudes thrill

One day a man approached the hill

Where the ant lay resting still

The man pointed to an abstract cloud

And confessed his belief out loud

“Look at the shape,” said the man

Hoping that the ant could understand

“Examine it close,

that is the shape of a hand”

The ant was silent,

For fear the man become violent

The man receiving no reply

Not a confirmation nor a deny

Left the hill with his interpretation

In search of his own hill

Where he could freely pour so that others could join in his inebriation

The ant from his hill

Could see the surrounding hills, natures pulpits

Each with a man

Drunk from the wisdom of the clouds

The ant left the hill

In search of a different view

And on its descent trailed behind it a simple scent

So it could find its way back to the hill of content

In the valleys between the hills

The ant could still hear the shrills

But the men were no longer sharing from their pulpits

They were screaming to the other hills “there’s nothing of it”

The ant looked up again at the sky

Curious to see if it could recognize one of their views

But could only see the stark conclusions on which they drew

Were all drawn with the same magnificent hue