Poetry - Make sure you tell the bees!

Along the Danube, near Turnu M?gurele

Beneath the willows bowed and grey,

Where waters sing and storks still stay,

An old beekeeper passed away—

And no one dared forget that day.

 

His hives stood quiet in the sun,

Gold-streaked boxes, every one.

A boy approached with heavy tread,

To speak the words the village said:

 

"Bees of the keeper, hear our cry,

Your master’s soul has flown the sky.

He won’t return with smoke or comb,

He’s gone where honey leads him home."

 

The bees were still — no hum, no flight,

The Danube glinted cold and white.

Then one flew out, then two, then three,

And circled round the cypress tree.

 

They did not sting, they did not stray,

But danced a solemn, drifting way.

Some say they followed to the grave,

To guard the man they could not save.

 

And now when someone dies nearby,

They whisper where the hives lie dry.

For bees remember more than sound —

They feel the loss, they feel the ground.

So tell the bees, and tell them true,

They lived with him — they grieve like you