My Little Skeletons
The ants crawl on the dry land awaited a summer thunder storm. They crawl slowly, with those little black cheeks up when they observe the gravy sky. They hope they can role instead of crawl. But they still crawl, slowly, and ponderously.
The ants crawl on the dry land dotted with rain drops. The dirt sprinkles in the air, one wave after another, make them scream out loud, but without a sound. They crawl a little bit faster, with a doom in each one of their tiny skeletons. But they still crawl, bare millions of hopeless thoughts.
The ants drone in the summer thunder storm, like they are born to be droned. They drift in the wet land, with their little cheeks up when they struggle to take the last glimpse of the gravy and promising sky. They sing: life can not be perfect, but death can be, isn't it, isn't it?
Meanwhile, trees are spreading their green tenderness, wordless endeavors are buried beneath the dirt. It is another summer. It is the same old inescapable doomsday.
Or is it?
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