​I flew like a feather through

Life; sniffing beauty I rarely believed to be true.

I kiss the nectars cooped between whorls of  silk

Pick grains your father, my creator, spreads for me…

I work hard

Though I don’t enslave myself doing things the things

He never wished I do.

Am the birds of the field.

I could be a varying shade of scents and nectars,

I could be a scene your eyes would race through for hectares.

Your father, my creator, clothes me,

But I draw up water for myself.

If I fail,

I’d wither.

Mr Word Spreader,

May I call you Tse-tse story;

You claim promises but make a mockery of conditions.

Wake up and come to my hills and

Your eyes will behold my mansions,

The food I gather in your wasteful days;

I Have a barn,

I have no farm.

I follow your road map.

I.work.hard.

Maybe Mr Ant is the name you know.

©Symolean