As I sip my bitter tea I stare beyond the ***** window
at the dying land that I would call my home.
Now I focus even closer at the window glass before me,
at the winged ant that's trapped between the sheets.
Should I tell her of mortality? Futility? Fragility?
Or should I be content to let her ignorance remain?
Is it best to let her live in fear or die without the knowledge why?
I simply pour a small tribute of ice-cold bitter tea.