Like the Sun.

The summer sun, scatters the tall waterfall of its light over the earth. The bees, small, small, excitedly fly from courtyard to courtyard. The bees: messengers of fertile pollen, from the lone lotus flower to the other open lotus flower beyond the border of the wall. Night after night it drips, smaller than a drop, the honey of the necessity of union, of unions, in the openings of the hives. Each night a little more than the night before. With the start of the pulse of a drop of water at the start of every vast day, whether I see or not, again! fast and fast again they are flying the messengers of fertile pollen: without discrimination, generous, scattering with open hands: like the sun...