Consider the ants of the field.

Do they wander from the highest
The gatherer hills from which they've grown
Were they born free or enslaved
Did they arrive red soldiers,
Becoming merely many
Knowingly unknown
Carving a labrinyth
Erupting out of a disrupted cone
Do they feel the death of one in many
Do they feel the crush of carelessness
Do they rush out from the labyrinth into the unknown Fighting for revenge
Is this the nurture of mother nature

She does not know to suffer death as Kin do.
No slings nor arrows, nor sting
Could force her to uphold it
Shiningly, in the manner that one cradles
Home.