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It was a beehive amid the hill, in a narrow cave, where it rose, the open mouth in front of the horizon. Leave of it bees in crop of honey, skillful, winged, peregrine and beyond, by the orchard, far away they flew; and, restless, aerial, small they went some and then others returned. |
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In the cave of the chest, the humanity possesses the heart that is — a beehive. They inhabit it with all freedom bees — hopes. In the way of those, they go, also, inconstant, these: Some take their flight and they leave, while others arrive light, swift, and they enter singing sonorous music. |
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There is still another similar point in the homes of different bees: It is a tormenting anomaly that just brings inclement sadness: The beehive of mud it happens, perfect, to be without a bee, abandoned — também a que nós temos entre o peito de esperanças sói ser desabitada. |
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