Radiating golden,
half my stripes are painted by rays of the sun. I fly amidst delicate petals, rose and blush. Every flower’s joy, delivered to your table. The queen bee watches me travel, one honeycomb to the next, a journey of treasured nectar. My work is my life, one that ends, as quickly as a single sting. I provoke fear, half my stripes an ominous black, my stinger a threat to giants near and far. Intrude in my hive, invade my home, expect no less than my sharp burn. Our nature is sacred, animals, traditions, and trees expansive, untouched green. We pass down our land, honey of our heritage, values of love instilled to the music of buzzing bees. We unite to protect against the deceitful invaders, toxins and poisons who sting. Our work is our lives; it ends with the death of the final bee. Instead, we must fight for our rights. We will retaliate with our sting. A sting is not our end, but merely a new beginning.
Emily Vayner 64
