The bees took their brethren back,
veterans of the poppy fields.
I supposed it had been a gang war:
rival hives congregated for the conducting of a quick mess.
The buzzing echo of last hurrahs went back and forth,
ripping through the war-marred air.
All the pomp in young yellow coats was bled out,
the limp black blood of limp bodies staining the survivors with black stripes.
Busy bees,
no pollen-love today,
just the broken hours of cleaning up a quick mess.
Bodies are collected,
damages inspected,
and small minds prepare for the resuming of a honeyed life tomorrow.
Yet, to the wail of queens,
crying in cricket language at mass wakes,
I think to myself:
How many flowers stand awaiting
the coming of lovers that will never come.