A table spoon of very sweet honey
The work of a few hundred bees
Over a few hundred or so miles
Tirelessly between flowers and leaves
And we cheated them so artfully
Burnt their hives to make them leave
And then looted their gold shamelessly
'Bee farming', so to say and speak
So when you cook, taste or lick the spoon
And in a another world of sweetness swoon
Remember the suffocating smoke and flame
That to an entire colony was a sad endgame.........
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This one give you food for thought, nicely put together. Annette