Honey

Spy, inside the hive,
Newborn bees shoving out of the larvae,
Shaking themselves off, enlightened,
Instantly carrying food to the queen.
At the same time, others
Are dying, dying, falling to the bottom.
The beekeeper, veiled priest of gold,
Tends the hive in silent contemplation,
Movements economical and loving,
Calm to the bone.

Time and again, risking their lives,
The Veddhas of Sri Lanka set out after honey;
The Rajis of the Nepalese Terai
Follow the bees through the forest all their lives;
The Bassari of Senegal abstain for three days
Then set out to hunt the wild honey.

Love should feed on the honeys of Lebanon,
From white orange blossom
And mountain oaks.
Love should live on the kikeon,
Elixir of the ancient Greeks.

At the flower’s sweet liquid core
The honeybee fills her stomach
Drop by drop
With celestial nectar.
All the flavours and scents of the country
Will swirl in her elixir.

Jesus emerges, hungry,
After three days entombed,
To eat a piece of broiled fish
And a honeycomb.