An ant was there

​

There was an ant.

​Being an ant was not its mistake;

The mistake was leaving behind the trees, the forest, the mountains, and the bushes—

To walk upon the trodden path,

To peer beyond its limits,

To venture outside.

​People passing by,

Immeasurably larger than it,

Had no awareness,

Nor did their moving, unheeding feet.

​Perhaps that ant, too, was unaware.

It knew nothing.

That death would come and strike in a flash.

​In the very next moment,

It was crushed beneath a foot.

It managed to scramble a bit,

And survived—just barely.

It saved two of its legs,

But lost the other four.

​Once strong and restless, it now lay half-dead with agony.

Perhaps death was smiling,

Watching from a distance.

​The other ants were luckier, perhaps—

They had survived.

​With its remaining legs,

It dragged itself, drawing circles, then straight and crooked lines.

And in just a few moments,

These circles and lines

Were bound to remain incomplete.

​Slowly, it began to grow still.

Its breath began to fail.

Its eyes began to close.