Dusted with the breath of springtime blossoms,
came the faithful honeybee.
And so, as I dreamt in the grassy weeds,
I disturbed his inspection, quite noisily.
And thus was pricked, and so he died,
a frail and flightless descend from the sky

Quivering, his legs began orchestrating 
the helpless end of a melody.
Life was draining, hot and fast,
amber eyes fading, dimming at last.
I knew he had finished his song,
hurriedly, tossing away the baton.

How little a life, how quick a tune,
how empty in the garden, his funeral room.
I picked a rose, and put it upon
his grave, hoping one would mourn:
his meager existence, his enslaved life,
his flickering, trembling, barely-there ligh

To think I could ever do such a thing,
as to kill the faithful honeybee.
The spot has long since overgrown,
his body gone and decomposed.
He didn’t love, he didn’t think,
a yellow-striped slave of the flowers,
his queen.

That faithful, faithful honeybee,
who placed his death in me.
That faithful, faithful honeybee,
who I hope, in heaven, sings.