A little sun and a little honey,
As we were ordered by the bees of Proserpine.
No one can free an unmoored boat,
Nor hear the shadow shod in fur,
Nor conquest fear in the dense forest of life.
We are left only with kisses
Prickling like tiny bees,
Which die when they leave the hive....
Take for joy my wild present,
This plain, dry necklace
Of bees, which died turning honey to sun.
~ Nadezhda Mandelstam