ANTS
Physical objects, changing, getting older,
hesitating like shadows under sunlight beams.
Wavering wings from cheerfulness to dejection.
Historical reality comes apart. Utterly dead and buried.
Just like reasoning.
Every piece of peaceful thoughts prepared to go off.
Ready for all dramatic effects.
Eventuality, as a matter of fact,
is a kind of subrogated trap,
an unexpected womb full of starving crimson worms,
which gives birth to the unfaithful events.
Run out of time which is not historical time.
Neither is the historical reality.
it is merely what no longer matters.
Happenings one after the other
like a marching row of ants
without noticing the hanging boot
over their heads.