APILANDA |
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Buried are the old drones On the cold, hungry night of autumn With the desire forever vanished Of the lovely spring bride In the sun in the high strata of the blue sky, The winter residence awaits The sleepy cluster of matryoshkas*, Amongst the silent, small sugar hexagons, The only heating for the honeycomb house, Without the fur coating of the ermine Or precious, perfumed cloth drapery And not even exotic, outstretched rugs Or oil-burning radiators and heaters.
The snow can shroud the palace Of the bees with a mantle of mystery That only a fable seems to possess, Amongst sphinxes and balsamic froth On stormy nights, in the darkness of Seasoned wood, winter beehive, Prosthesis of the heat of the bees, Protective expansion and shelter.
Bulbs, roots and tubers nurture The hermit in prayer to The infinite, unknown destiny, Near the restorative fires of Solitude, that even the bees have In the transforming energy of the Comforting honey full of grace, When the solitary winter path Indicates the road with its baton Of winds and tempests.
The circle of bees prudently moves In the cluster, in and out, To touch in turn the queen Hungry at the center of the colony, That narrates many stories to them and can Inspire many adventures That all little ones love and that Can keep that secret of the stars On the role of the night, when Sleeping dreams the dawn of a new day.
Shepherd’s purse** under the vines Does not know how to offer its fresh pollen For the first hatchlings of the year. |
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Translation courtesy of Dan Aspromonte |