They call me a pest, though for what or why,
I do not know.
Do I not labour amongst the blossoms and the buds
to the carnal delight of trees,
hunchbacked as the bees do?
Do I not dance by the lilies and the bluebells
to the open bloom of Spring
lovelorn as the bees do?
Do I not brace the gale and the storm
to dispense nectar kisses,
resolute as the bees do?
Do I not carry on haste and vibrant wings
echoes of this antique land,
agelessly as the bees do?
Am I not wrought by the same immortal Hands,
Am I not forged in the same eternal Fires,
Am I not shaped by the same hallowed Hammer blows,
Am I not whet by the same wild desires?
I kiss the hands that bless.
I bite the hands that crush.
Does not a scorpions sting?
Does not a bee prick?
Does not a Man rebel
with forlorn abandon too?
Is it my wives you fear,
who drinks by pinches all the vintage of your years?
Does not a man, drunk with wantonness
vertebrated flesh consume?
Or Is it my furtive hands,
that knead eagerly over the whites of a dead man’s eye?
Does not a man with lascivious haste
claim the dead man’s Name?
I am not clad in a lion’s mane.
I wear no tiger hides,
my wings no lustre,
My hive gives no honey,
My host no shelter.
In the shattered visage of a thousand eyes,
I see your hands cleave with swift wrath,
And I die.
~ Peter for ASPZ, Fall of 2020
#00117F 