Photo by Guillaume de Germain on Unsplash

In Praise of Little Living Things


on its quickening path,

the sun drives

frills of mists before it,

like a thrower’s disc

scudding across a dune.

Smeared under my boot,

is the universe of an ant.

It might,

I had thought to myself,

crawl into the sugar pot

or at night,

cling to my hair,

perhaps to lay eggs.

It does not occur to me —

this is how

we are bound to fear

and ignorance

and smallness.

When ant night falls,

it’s babies

will keen for it, I know.

The ant was only a little thing,

a drop of fiery amber

carried on symmetry,

and the truth is,

the grasses will miss it.

I, mistress of incomplete loves,

wanderer amongst

remote pains,

killed what was

undeniably complete.

Unsung and industrious.

Without egotism, of course.

And now

only an empty

muskiness in the nest

and in my humbled heart,

remorse for a fool’s impulse.

As jasmines turned to cordovan

sink into a wet night,

guava leaves steam and

shiver, and black dewdrops

sit heavy on my heart

…I drift and dream

And it occurs to me —

All life

is conceived with purpose,

and immaculately


To weep without

understanding why,

is a privelege, I understand.

When the sun rises

the next morning to

drink the breath of dawn,

it sees a sugar pot, lonely

but filled with a

sweet anticipation,

in the open window.

Marching towards it,

a resolute river of


living things

Farida Haque

Photo by sebastiaan stam on Unsplash