From Tristia, by Osip Mandelstam

[kaberett]

Take for joy from the palms of my hands
fragments of honey and sunlight,
as the bees of Persephone commanded us.

Not to be untied the moored vessel,
not to be heard shadow walking on fur,
not to be mastered terror growing in thickened life.

We have only kisses now,
furred like the smallest bees
found dead after their flight from the hive.

Bees rustling in translucency of densest night,
their home the sleepy forest of Taigetos,
their food time, lungwort, mint.

Take then, take for joy my wild gift,
a plain dry necklace of dead bees,
bees that changed honey into sunlight.

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Via dragonyphoenix because of jewelry.