a wasp flew a straight line from its nest to me cloaked in puny sunshine it thought itself to be free unheard was its buzzing unseen its rainbow wings untold was what it carried i only felt it sting the suspension like a drawn sword cut through the silence within the absence of feeling retrieved was healed by the relief of loss an epitaph if to be given would affirm the infinity of the end a promise given in portions partitioned to satisfaction make one see through the gloss to the plainness within that grieves in honour and truth shedding tears of blood it tastes the purest fruit in the acceptance of its pain lies the moral of our story