Ants

We come and go like ants,

Across a sandy path.

Our toils and worries relentless.

Our tiny lives a farce 

In dogged determination, 

We go about our days.

In all our exertations,

There is a price to pay.

For nothing lasts forever,

And we are just the same.

Just like the poor old moths,

We are pulled into the flame. 

We burn bright for just a little while,

Until our wings, beaten, old,

Remind us our days of glory,

Now remain to us, erstwhile.