A honeybee he is,
but how does he know
it's his brief to make honey;
never once it was articulated anywhere,
following a faint tune of fragrance
he flies, crossing barriers, forgetting everything else.
This is a divine madness, his blood sings,
he is just an instrument in the creation of sweetness,
the rain clouds pour down in torrents
the flowers are laden with water
his honey tastes different.
In summer he hums a different tune,
in resonance with many fragrances that invite him,
as flowers vie with each other,
to let him have their taste.
Honeybee's tune now changes to a love song,
always remembered by the inebriated pairs of lovers
roaming in the gardens.
A honeybee he is, he is unaware what it means,
he is prompted by nature in all he does.