Of bees and flowers

Beauty is a lonesome soul

searching for the one who cares

down inside the home of cold

it is cherished as it flares

Though forgotten when it dies

That its barely been hold dear

The queen forsaken in her hive

the bearing crop has grown to sear

cause no one dares to kneel to flowers

so we cut them with a knife

carry their scent into our towers

not to cherish them alive