Worker bees, busy, bring nectar
to the queen, their destinies
certain-their purpose clear.
I long for such certainty
such clarity, antennae
focused, like the worker bees
leading straight to
my intended end.
It is in sight-this end
and I have walked in
diverse gardens, searching
for the bloom that's marked as mine
yet still the goal's a mystery.
Whatever nectar I have sipped
has not yet reached the hive
and turned to honey.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem