From the time I was a child
I feared the suffering of insects,
bodies mutely pulped.
I watched the machinic clutch
upon a mangled ant, grinding
down last limbs in dogged
irrespect of its own dying.
With each burst bulb of
a laden wasp I waited for
some puff of their interior
mystery to be released.
But silent, they marked the
limits of my knowledge,
those wounded gods.
I pray to them daily for their wisdom,
because I want to be ready.
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