to the feisty eyes ripe with colourless flavours,
a honeydew heart ripening to your gaze,
what is enough of what you gave her,
it’s hard to taste without mellows’ grace.
flowers blossomed to how much she cares,
and the bees’ duty is to pick every life of woe
containing you, the honey she shares.
into the caged beehive, you ought to go.
when you can’t support her frail vines,
holding onto a batch of sweet or sour grapes
for your pleasure, for your wine,
crawling to you, where else can she escape?
knowing we’ll again be born,
she plants another seed to the dearest dirt,
stuck in fields of shrubs and thorns,
her bold and bravery which they were birth.