The worker bee knows no rest, Nor her tiny wings, scrawny legs,
and her tired little head.
The worker bee bumbling
through the petaled garden.
Questioning not the reward of tomorrow,
Dreading not the labor of the day.
Today, tomorrow, yesterday.
Everyday.
Continuing the daily toil without a care,
Engaged yet withdrawn,
Exists to exist.
Is it a sin to suckle on the sweet nectar of the earth?
Thought the little worker bee.
Or be carried away by the fragrant summer breeze,
into the mesmerizing chants of the tangled green trees?
Should it feel shame for lingering too long
in the gentle autumn dawn?
Should it numb out all pleasures,
from the captivating beauty of a moonlit fawn.
The worker bee,
caught between illusion and enlightenment,
tangled in the cosmic webs woven by nature's guardian,
danced to the waltz of eternal existence.
Engaged yet withdrawn,
Toiling without a care.
Exists to exist.
