the hive calls
The sky burns amber, but there’s no pause.
Not even for a moment when the wind is soft,
The world hums on silver wings,
Restless, restless, like a busy bee.
The hive calls, the honeybees flit—
Gathering, building, working.
There’s no stillness, there’s no breather,
For stillness is luxury, and survival is motion.
The hive calls, they depend on the honeybees,
Never enough, never complete.
Just one more, and another,
Until the silver wings give in.
I’m just a honeybee—like thousands of others,
Always chasing from one flower onto another.