After Archias, The Greek Anthology, vii, 213
The molting cicada,
immobilized,
is overcome by ants.
Soon legions arrive,
and, lifting it up,
bear off the pine’s
shrill singer, beloved
by shepherds. Mouths
feast, and fierce clamps rend
carapace to penetrate
the tender core.
No more the song
shall issue forth
from the cool, dark branches.
Sweeter than lyre-song
to those in the fields
was his compound melody.
O Hades, relent!
Undo this undignified
abduction!
That so mighty a singer
could be laid low
by these riddling pests
is cruel. Mandibles
are not musical,
and to be prey —
life’s juices sucked
by idiot drones —
unthinkable!
Has any ant, ever,
had one original thought?
Should not some Muse instead,
reach down and take
the joyous maker of song
into her protection?
A second horde arrives.
They will take hours
to finish off the cicada.
Inedible themselves,
the ants fear nothing.
Have you not seen enough?
Oh, look away!
