The brave bee flies from flower to hive,
The buzzing sound brings my surroundings to life.
The wind wishes quietly and white dandelions shed,
Their thin delicate seeds, now the flower is dead.
The crane behind me roars loudly and leers.
The flowers, animals and bees all cower in fear.
My silent still being seems inviting to creatures,
As machines shake the ground erecting new features.
I abhor these unstoppable destroying hunks of steel.
With each clash of metal, the inevitable future becomes real.
What can I do to keep my finite nature alive?
I speak about the bee, flying from flower to hive.