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Oct 2015
An army of ants, black, brown, red and white, in disciplined columns,
each one no less than any other,armed to the teeth, ready to ****
on their marauding march,find this giant, not a day too long ago was
too fierce as a man,  whose reign of  terror was most feared, lying still,
as if all those deeds were  incidental,and he in no way is to be blamed.

They are equanimous, the ants, next wave, this is no more than just debris,  this relic from the past, for them, something to be dealt with,
the army of disciplined ants, as per their manual, meticulously inspect,
whether the body has some strength  left somewhere in the system,
to pull together rise, overcome the fatigue of a life full of misdeeds
not nice to remember,  counted all the same as glory by sycophants.

They want to finish the work fast, fearing the return of the nightmare,
busily they went on doing what they are good at,they had their brief,
from the command center ,to clear up the debris from the battle front,

The last of the ants leaving  the gnawed white bones,  under moonlight,
writes the epitaph on sand,with it's spindly legs,thus:"This fort too fell"
All flesh is grass
K Balachandran
Written by
K Balachandran  Kerala, India
(Kerala, India)   
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