The epic of swarming is an
Adventure of a thousand years of explorations
Where the borders of infinity meet
Its abyss and natural destiny
Remains unknown to all creatures. 

The beehive shakes, the queen-cell cups pulsate,
The space cannot hold this number of wings
Flowery resources, the queen is slender,

She has prepared herself, instinctive biology,
The explorers are ready and strong,
The wax-making bees call the architects,
Intense whirring and flight becomes circular
When the swarm leaves, without booking
Trains or places in planes and without having bought
Another residence, risk of the unknown
Destination, natural providence.

The swarm leaves but does not take with it
Amphorae of oil or wine, baskets of
Vegetables and dried fruit, sacks of
Provisions, spices, flour and chocolate,
Containers of frozen foods and medicines,
Meat as sausages or in tins;
It is a journey with no return, the flight
Of the swarm is only about honey, it is

Purely an instinct, of the springtime.



Attached to a branch of an olive or maple,
he long beard of a saintly monk,
Without charioteers or captains of the foundries,
It does not know if it navigates along the course
Of the able explorers or when
It will arrive at the place, hard ravine,
Where, however, there will not be
Invested capitals or interest.

The swarm is a surprise, elastic
Force, it is a cluster of hope
As wonderful as a photocopier,

It is a fleet of royal yachts
It is a brazier of rare metals

It is a high snow-clad pinnacle
It is a safe, a people, a species
And also a grain of wisdom
A ring of prudence and humility
An inspiring bracelet of conscience
A work, a heart, a spirit.


Translation courtesy of Marion Apley Porreca