Seeking moisture,
Eyes are
Earthen creatures.
Broken stalks stumble on
barren earth,
good earth, but barren
earth that shelters
Fourteen
Thousand ants under the space of a single
spades-worth.
Dust-wind blows
a tearful melody on the necks of laborers,
Omniscient, yet naïve-
A spades-worth of tilling,
A single day in an eon,
A negation in a wave of self-doubt,
A grudge of a thousand foes against the shadows of
Fourteen
Thousand ants under the space of a single
Thud.