Poem: Ants

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Ants

The news declares
a man in mask
open fire
four dead.
Tears, tears,
midnight song.
Remember those
who have ceased
to exist.

Then,
drying eyes we
trot outside with
electric kettle,
and drown
an anthill
in burning
oblivion.

How many deaths –
five hundred and three?
(with the water left over
from our cup of tea)

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