I wander frozen towers in the sky,
To watch the sun-bright snow shine into honey
And hear the click-click of jaws that may be joyful
Set to work. Work, yes, joyful in the hive
That listens to a buzzing song;
I hold tight to hope, yes, and to steel-sharp sting.

And here, yes, there is life despite the sting
Felt when cast to the blue true sky.
Silence becomes droning becomes clicking becomes song
As swarming soft-flesh feeds me honey.
In honey-thick shadow I retch out the hive
That calls it a crime, yes, a crime to be joyful.

For even in screech-screech of pain, love is joyful.
Yes, a joy that burrows, sings the sting
Of sacrifice. When sacrifice escapes the hive,
It is no hive. It molts beneath the sky
And dies. It putrifies, a venom in the rot-sweet honey.
Perhaps it was no hive that stung the echo of our song.

Yes, such was had by he and I, a song-
Together- we were joyful, joyful.
A buzzing chorale clicking sweet as honey,
Sung by the young-molt, heedless of the sting
Awaiting those who consumate. In honeyed sky,
No vow to bind, I ate him and I lost my hive.

So came the creeping hunt for sky-lit hive,
For soft-flesh that feels the buzzing song
To rise, to serve, to follow the true-sky
In work that is sacred and joyful.
The lost one is given a new sting-
Yes, it is mine, then, to give them honey.

Yes, they will see the pride in the honey-
The pride of a princess serving her hive.
For hive and for Queen I take up my sting
And click-click along in the work-song.
I crawl in buzzing towers and am joyful,
And, joyful, raise my jaws to Dreaming Sky.

No more sting without the honey
As the sky becomes my hive.
Yes, my song- it is joyful.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 7th of Severin, in the year 18 AC.