Ant

It clings to objects tenaciously.
They shift about slowly, it moves with them,
As if moving invisibly through the visible world.

Hair for a blade. The body of a beetle for wheat grain. Trace for trace.
So it rises, which you call home.
The border between the safety of tunnels and the unbearable expanse.

It returns from far away, always by the same way.
And it brings no messages. And no prophecies.
A period at the end of an increasingly intricate clause.

And there aren’t names for this, which it is.
When lost in its own maze, only hope remains
That at least there are names for this, which it isn’t.

Aleš Šteger