Anthill, subconscious of the forest,
Poked up by a curious stick —
Your labyrinths, storey on storey,
Collapse into dust. Be aware:

I am like you. My skull
Crumbles into shards
Carried off by ants — by words.

And every word — up, down, over — roams
From nerve to nerve, through smoke and powder keg.
And all are running from their homes,
Bearing in their mouth a snow-white egg.

1940