Any date, any day, any month, any year

Smoke shoots from the factories,
From the trash,
From the grass.
A dim sunlight unveils itself
At the planned hour, reluctantly.
Ants crawl out of their forts
To earn material ends.
One looks like the other,
The other like another.
Each one crawling in and out
And up and down
And back and forth,
Like a corpse.
They settle before machines,
To work like machines,
To undo the feat of their forerunners.
Not realizing,
When it is day
And when it is not.
When the clock summons
The planned hour,
They go back to their ant-hills,
Tired, melancholic, sleepy.
They crawl into their beds,
And die for a few hours.
And the world dies with them.

The next morning comes,
Awakens them at the planned hour,
To pull the same burden for the next day.


-----------------------