Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!

The Ant Hill

We clutch, crab, cry and fly to build
We fight, steal, heal and sing along the way
We put tiny clays together to form a hill
We work in bundles, hold our hands, share our pain
We fight, protect, bite. We pry, carry, strike, and burry
We thatch, rub, paint, plan and know no sleep.

We do not frown, this hill will be called home
Our queen, we will give our lives
We are wise as our maker made us
Our home is this hill
Its warmth makes chill.

In time surveyors broke it down
They destroyed our sanctuary
Dismantling its sacredness
The pieces scattered all around the floor

We still pick up our labour
Our not-respected hard work
We sweat all over again: searching, carrying, hunting
Burying, protecting, fighting, painting, planning

Our plight never stops.

Written by Patrick K. Antwi


Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge