An ant was walking hard and fastAnd raising plumes of densest dustAs it trampled with its feetLike a sergeant on his beat. "Where d'you think you're rushing, brute,Who's chasing you in hot pursuit?You're wreaking havoc in your rage,Disgraceful ants, disgraceful age!" from Around the Weenfinite Starting from Nothing Definite, Ion Creangă, 1973
by Marin Sorescu (1931-1996)
