Saturday, September 1, 2012


Those gaunt hands that collect honey
Know well of the musical hum and the
Unforgiving sting. Alone in the woods
At dawn he searches for a bee's haven.
He knows well the rise and fall of
Beauty. The amber hue of the heavenly
Sap, the mesmerising buzz of the little

But, sometimes though never too often
The sting cuts through all of that and
Whats left is the pain and the fiery burn.
A token, a price he does pay in the woods
To collect that nurturing sap every day,
Alone in the woods. The haze of the mist,
The fear of being lonesome and of course
A thousand stinging buzz.

Between that and now though, he is unpinned,
Chained in a two by four hut of his own making.
Imposing, lonely and engulfing where neither
The bees, the honey, the woods or the dawn
Decide to come by and keep him company, for
The bees are busy in their combs vomitting the
Drops and the rest dont care. That is when the
Sting stings...

Its true; every man of this profession gets stung
Often enough for them to accept it as their own.
But, what does one do when thousand scalds and a
Million stings are magnified by the time he has to 
Himself in that sullen hut of two by four? He melts,
Nay he vanishes within, lives within and waits without.
Now, that is a taste that we don't get when we gorge
Ogrishly on that freshly collected honey...

The taste of unintentional singularity that stings
All over and expands time and with it agony. And as
Time ceremoniously stretches itself just for a jest
The scalds dont heal and the stings dont numb.. Its
Just echoes in the two by four, the conundrum and
Concerto of the bee's hum!

© Malyaban Lahiri

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