One morning a little black ant lay prostrate;
On the upper side of a fallen big log.
At last it'd found favour in the eye of fate;
Getting such a warm place in the midst of a fog.
The gods had finally been kind, he thought;
To weave body and soul with much serenity;
On a beautiful piece of lumber well-wrought.
How well was it to submit to their sanctity.
For years he'd wandered the rough wilderness;
Seeking a place he'd call his own.
And today he has found it in all fairness;
Majestically raised above all others, is his throne.
Bit by bit he felt warmer but didn't think it odd;
For life had never been this good;
Rather, this was more reason to feel awed;
And he meant to last there as long as he could.
But in no time he felt a sharp pain under his belly;
Followed by an eerie silence which was deathly.
Alas, the log was a burning furnace underneath;
The log was burning beneath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem