Quotidian ant,
Carrying atoms to
His catacombs
Raised dust above his shoulders.
Dust is the pismire’s prophet –
From crumbs come something allegoric.

A workaholic
Burdened by
Some inner colic
Pestled with a cigarette
The insect on her desk.
Two, three decades on,

As I attend
My final death
May God pluck me
From mortal measured depths
And postpone the sacrifice.
I am yet for living.

[JV-1]