Ants and the Sun
Sun at zenith; the sun-cross is hoisted; the sun-octopus with its million spears never ceases its warfare.
The sun shines over the ant kingdom and gives the ants over to the wilderness. The wilderness is a pit of dense silence, snake's coil, bottomless well, but light carries the promise of shade. Whoever sees the shining light will see the shade. In the wilderness the ants are watched over; but the ice of silence presses deeper and deeper into the heart.
The sun is far, the sun is near. It moves over the ant kingdom but we do not see it; the sun is a brazier whose flames are felt by the terrified ants, but they do not see it; the sun strides proudly but its creeping is not felt; only the echoes of its stride are felt, in the valleys of the ant kingdom.
And there is no way out. The ants are held together by questionings. They mill around and around, multiply, grow tired, melt with the heat, yet the road to the wilderness dissipates the efforts that are tinged with blood.
The sun is a cauldron, seething. The ants cross over, dazed, passive, naked, bloodied, their road spiked with thorns. They sink in the sticky night, their eyes wounded, clogged with sand, exploring the pit of the desert, heart of the wilderness, fatigued, thirsty, panting as they search for a seed with which to bribe their torturer, the sun, but there is no way out.
No deliverance, no way out ...
Tammuz, stabbed in his parent heart, lies prostrate before the spears that engage the ant kingdom
And the bottom of the cauldron gulps whatever the octopus hunts, whatever lies in the folds of the wilderness crowded with dry logs ...
There is no way out ...
The sun shines over the ant kingdom and gives the ants over to the wilderness. The wilderness is a pit of dense silence, snake's coil, bottomless well, but light carries the promise of shade. Whoever sees the shining light will see the shade. In the wilderness the ants are watched over; but the ice of silence presses deeper and deeper into the heart.
The sun is far, the sun is near. It moves over the ant kingdom but we do not see it; the sun is a brazier whose flames are felt by the terrified ants, but they do not see it; the sun strides proudly but its creeping is not felt; only the echoes of its stride are felt, in the valleys of the ant kingdom.
And there is no way out. The ants are held together by questionings. They mill around and around, multiply, grow tired, melt with the heat, yet the road to the wilderness dissipates the efforts that are tinged with blood.
The sun is a cauldron, seething. The ants cross over, dazed, passive, naked, bloodied, their road spiked with thorns. They sink in the sticky night, their eyes wounded, clogged with sand, exploring the pit of the desert, heart of the wilderness, fatigued, thirsty, panting as they search for a seed with which to bribe their torturer, the sun, but there is no way out.
No deliverance, no way out ...
Tammuz, stabbed in his parent heart, lies prostrate before the spears that engage the ant kingdom
And the bottom of the cauldron gulps whatever the octopus hunts, whatever lies in the folds of the wilderness crowded with dry logs ...
There is no way out ...
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