To the Ants
Collectively their work is doneBeneath the searing noontime sun.
They wrestle boulders twice their size
To build their towers to the skies.
Their lives are short and never free,
No individuality,
No love, no joy no peace of mind
Will interrupt their daily grind.
Devoid of grace and form and rhyme,
Their works won't bear the test of time.
Their monuments can never stand.
They are, alas, but made of sand.
Their lives are brutal, short and scant.
Thus we despise the lowly ant.
Yet thinking of the human race,
Are we, perhaps the ants of space?
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