A tiny ant has lost itself,
     In swirling grains of wood,
Amidst monolithic figurines,
     Atop the highest shelf,
In a room within a house,
     Forever it has stood.

In a field turned black with fire,
     Still smoldering with flame,
There stands among the piled ash,
     And burnt-up charcoal briar,
A single wildflower–yes so wild,
     Even the inferno couldn’t tame.

Somewhere a child is crying,
     A desperate distressing shrieking plea.
Because he never has received,
     The food he needs, he’s dying.
Ignored and deplored, the starving child
     Will soon dead and forgotten be.

Why do I care for these things–
     The child, the flower, or the ant?
I know what others don’t care to know,
     (What joy this knowledge brings!)
To be the authority on what the world,
     Considers the insignificant.