On a grassy field on the world of Terra...
A being that is not much bigger than the specimens it has collected.
It stares down at the insects as it designs a poem for them now.
Ants will gather across the lands and on many a rock,
Marching across soaked soil and drenched grass without pause,
Feasting on the dead across the land with ruthless efficiency.
Once done with the first stanza, it moves onto the next, looking at its next group of ants within a container,
Ants gather far and wide across their territory,
Moving forward with great stride amongst the foliage,
Steady water from the sky falls upon them,
Through the night side by side with an ally,
Gathering morsels on a path side by side.
Done with its next stanza, checking over its work, the strange ethereal yet corporal entity continues to the next tank, pen still in hand, as it begins to rain,
Ants Marching across the dirt bringing tension amongst observers,
Fields unyielding to footfalls made by the approaching insects,
As- the rain beats down on them with silent approval.
Though forced to improvise an umbrella using its power, it continues its work on its set of poems, as it moves onto the next as it balances the clipboard it holds,
Ants as black as the night and cold as the darkness of the night,
Fierce with a mighty bite ready for any foe who may approach,
After many a sweet thing to bring home to their ruler,
Offering to the nest is what they bring alike,
Bringing it all through their fight with foe alike.
Finding this one adequate, it moves onto the next stanza, a little tired by this point, it only works to make a few lines, before resting its mind and waiting for the rain out,
Ants toiling away from their first light of day,
Deep within dry earth carved by siblings,
For the cold ruler of their nest.
Satisfied with what it writes after the long hours of dull waiting, it gives itself more time to rest, as it then moves onto the next large stanza it writes,
Within nest carved through the wood,
Through harsh work done by workers as it would,
Crafting the design of their new home with speed,
As the food is gathered as they roam abroad,
As their home is made for the ants as it should.
Finishing up this stanza, though it had to be quite delicate when it stuck its head within the wood, to avoid harming the ants as they worked, muttering quietly to itself as it continues,
Ants are one unit in action and sync,
Trampling soil to conquer the enemy found anywhere,
Adversity-itself to the colony too if they must.
Wondering idly if it has repeated itself somewhere, but interested more in continuing, they just continue writing, staring at the next tank with attention as it writes,
Bringing with them a fiery sting by fang and needle,
Fluttering on their Crimson wings,
With a loyalty, no beast can attest to naturally,
With a reputation marked by their fiery hue armor,
Marked with aggression that they bring with them.
Happy at its work at this stanza, it moves onto another group of specimens in another tank, as it put its pen back to paper and continues,
Ants work tirelessly through the day and night,
As flowers blossom high above their heads,
Ants continue fearlessly through it all.
It stops after a bit, as it moves onto the next stanza before it adds more as, at this point, a kind of pattern has been made already from all the breaks it had, it tells itself as it continues writing,
As the ants gather food for their kind with haste,
They face foes to their happiness as they do sincerely mind,
Sting with pain so intense it is not unlike being shot,
Attacking with a viciousness that others have not,
Used in tribulations by others, as a ritual, they are confined.
Though it does wonder if the above is a bit on the nose for what ants it has in front of it, it continues, as notice that this is the last specimen it has left to go,
Though even as confined by a container,
one should not forget the wrath of their kind,
As many can attest to and find,
As they rank amongst the highest of ant kind,
With their birthright, that of a sting you would rather not learn and find.
Finishing up the last stanza, it creates a wide smile on its face, as it cleans up the page, and makes sure to properly highlight it as it places it in the center of its specimens.~
Written Essay, by an Unknown Author
Found by a Police Officer, in a plot of land scheduled for renovation, with the only signature left on it was, "Spook"
Not a single person has been confirmed to be spook, eventually resulting in this case being closed as it goes cold to this day.