Ants swarm on the day dreams
then dragging away
they move
trickling drips
of melted salt
mined out from the wounds
to sand silos of the anthill
cutting through the brittle bones
they smelled the blood of ennui
they talked to each other in their dreams
those who know the art
of tooting one’s own horn
know well why
dream those day dreams that eat up time
these anthill mines
covering up the sandstorms
are migratory
losing colour the anthill sand
spits out dream’s resemblance
having been granted the signals, the ants
rush away from the anthills
from the wrist’s cut vein
mysteries seep out
and in the blood
shines a dusky sunlight

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