Theme And Variation

That summer there was no honey. The queens led their swarms away, the strawberry bed dried up in a day, the berrypickers went home early. All that sweetness, swept on one ray of light off to sleep. Who slept this sleep before his time? Honey and berries? He is a stranger to suffering, the one with the world at his hands. In want of nothing. In want of nothing but perhaps a bit, enought to rest or to stand straight. He was bent by caves-and shadows, because no country took him in. He wasn't even safe in the wood- a partisan whom the world reliquished toher dead satellite, the moon. He is a stranger to sufferin, the one with the world [at his hands, and was anything not handed him? He had the bettle's cohort wrapped round his finger, blazes branded his face with scars and the wellspring appeared as a chimera before his eyes, where it was not. Honey and berries? Had he ever known the scent, he'd have followed it long ago! Walking a sleepwalker's sleep, who slept this sleep before his time? One who was born ancient and called to the darkness early. All that sweetness swept on one ray of light before him. He spat into the undergrowth a curse to bring drought, he screamed and his prayers were heard: the berrypickers went home early! When the root rose up and slithered after them, hissing a snakeskin remained, the tree's last defense. The strawberry bed dried up in a day. In the village below, the buckets stood empty like drums waiting in the square. Then the sun struck and paradiddled death. The windows fell shut, the queens led their swarms away, and no one prevented them from fleeing. Wilderness took them in, the hollow tree among ferns, the first free state. The last human being was stung and felt no pain. That summer there was no honey.