The back-yard ants have built a monument to life,
labyrinthine as any desert can boast of.
Perhaps time passes differently for them--
the same way that for God our centuries are heartbeats
their days for us are moments
and we as gods to them.
How else could we destroy the work of generations
with one footstep,
or leave it poisoned, hollow--
like our pyramids, a monument to death,
its intricate passages echoing with tiny curses.