The ants moved into a house
right below ours;
our address did not become theirs:
a sand hill under the floor

The hessian road of the ants
ran from the kitchen cupboards
past the drainpipes, and vice versa
down to their factory shop floors
The stream of workers dressed in
shining black trotted to and fro
in an Asian rhythm

In their footsteps the song of substance
droned, ‘Matter, matter'
- There is nothing but matter
They transported strawberry particles
but dust flecks too and other burdens
to their underground warehouse,
their tinning factory

If I were to fall to pieces
by the kitchen sink,
then they would lift sweet portions of lip;
ant centurions would bear
my no longer functioning eyeball
How the conveyor belt would rattle,
there in the depths

The ants show no mercy
I wouldn't like to fall down
under the kitchen cupboards
alone with the ants

Translation: 2008, Willem Groenewegen