ANTS Poem by Robinson Quintero

Rest rest you laborious ones

All day
under the table
you have carried
the crumbs of my meal
on the way to your hiding place

Why such a hurry?

I would say to you:
harvest now
there will be days of dearth

But the poem depends on chance
— it will take time —
and other crumbs will fall to the floor
from the torn sheet of paper

Don't hurry then workers
take a nice break

Because I
like another
— solitary— ant
will go on working
until no more verses
fall from my table