In summer heat, In vibrating of the passion air, The bees fly less repose – They are slave of the cruel instinct. They are culling the flowers’ honey – It’s their destiny, That is programming Less one mistake In little flesh of the insect. They are perfect: The tromp, the wing, the spine – All are necessary, Obligatory for a working bee. What are making, less they, flowers? They aren’t to rain, largely, Aromas and colors… Less the laborious bees Aren’t ripen the fruits of trees, The autumns and the summers Will be poor, indeed… Adela Vasiloi