Like a symbol that binds us, casting aside both caste and creed,
A relentless quest for hearth and food drives every primal need.
To keep the great wheel turning, sustaining life across the birth,
They stir within the stone-scented meadows, deep beneath the earth.
Forever moving, quiet and swift, they struggle to grow,
Shrouded by shadows of fallen leaves and the dry, hazy coil below.
Bound to the soil, drenched in darkness, rooted far and deep,
Through trees, herbs, and tangled creepers, the silent currents creep.
They carve a vast, unseen estate that climbs along the wall,
Spreading over rooftop peaks, where river shadows fall.
Upon the banks, the tiny ants, in generous legions, thrive,
A bustling, streaming brotherhood that keeps the wild alive.
Caught in a grand, ecstatic motion, they mimic death’s repose,
Yet stride through every painful hardship that nature’s rhythm throws.
With every step, they gather strength, an urgent, vital spark—
Defying the quiet, deadened stillness to leave their bustling mark.
