Sealed in her chambers,
The queen lays eggs.
That is her only task.
Revered isolation
Is her company.
Outside, the colony goes on
In its continuous flow.
Productive little workers
Are bustling about.
Some are carrying
Tiny bits of dirt,
Patiently, single-mindedly,
Unquestioningly.
They build chambers,
Passages and tunnels.
Using their saliva
To make the walls hard.
Thanks to them,
The ant hill is born.
Others tend to the young,
The recent output of the queen,
Grooming and feeding.
Most of the eggs
Will become part of the mass,
Obedient little workers,
Capable and efficient.
Food-gatherers wander around,
Tirelessly, for days, to scavenge
And collect, returning
With the spoils, sharing
All with their queens.
The soldiers gain in size,
Their task is to serve and protect.
Created for a single purpose,
They defend at any cost.
Through the thick glass,
The formicarium is laid out.
Activity doesn’t cease,
Even for a moment.
A mindless perfect
Mechanism.
A flawless order,
Eulogy to efficacy.
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