It's like a purring, yet not a buzzing,
because that precaution is dictated by an old rule,
though stating that the human foe
will not avoid losing the battle on account of that discovery:
behind the walls millions of invisible ants
go across infinite maps against infinite oblique maps.
They are in every alteration around:
our imprudent prudence serves us
as ignorant wisdom: all that moves
without moving is a carelessness of their stern generals.
And under the underneath there is more:
we never understood their parallel world,
that together with ours has prospered
advantageously and upholsters the various deep layers
of the Earth with life.
Ants have their historians
and their poets, singing the victory
foresaid by some faraway prophets,
prior to us and to plants with flowers.
In their world time has a scale
where we are barely another animal
that the ant-hills see to be born and die.
And underneath, always underneath the earthly bark,
rivers of real continents, not the superficial quarters
we hardly see crossing the garden,
proclaim new republics and new innovations,
uncapable of being imagined, and are hardly the possible
to foresee in a sphere that the human mind
stupidly sure of itself
absent-mindedly peeps into its frontiers and believes to control.
And at a different scale that we call conscience,
mocking me this weak animal
that drains about my hand
in its manner serves the power of an empire
that as we ignore, all its life it is unaware of.