DJ Goher
Guest
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It's true for bees as it is for human beings: Life brings sickness with it. You can see The signs of it in the bees, without any doubt: Their color changes as soon as they fall ill; Their bodies are all disheveled and there's a dreadful Emaciation in the look of them; And then you can see the other bees as they carry Out from the dwelling places the bodies of those From whom the life has gone; and you can see The sick ones not yet dead that hang almost Motionless around the doors outside, With crossed and tangled feet; or still inside, Listless with hunger and shrunken from the cold. And then you can hear a mournful long drawn-out Whispering rustling sound like the sound of the cold South Wind as it murmurs in the woods, or like The agitated hissing of the sea As the waves draw back, or the seething noise of a fire Eating its way as it burns inside a furnace. At such a time you must offer them the odor Of the smoke of sweet-smelling resin, and feed them honey Through oaten straws, to encourage the weary creatures And invite them to partake of accustomed food; A good idea, as well, to offer dried Rose-leaves in a mixture with powdered oak-gall, Or must that has been enriched by boiling down, Or sun-dried clusters of Psithian grapes, together With aromatic centaureum and thyme; And there's a meadow plant that's called "amellus," Easy to see because from a single root One stem produces an enormous fountain Of golden cascading leaves and among them shining Dark-purple-violet lights of the flower petals; These often garland the altars of the gods. It has a bitter taste; it's gathered by The shepherds where they find them in the pastures Or on the banks of wandering Mella's stream. You should boil the roots in fragrant wine and leave The food set out in baskets near their doors.
But if it suddenly happens that the whole Stock is utterly lost and you don't know how To go about establishing another, It's time to disclose the legendary secrets Of the Arcadian master, by means of which Bees were engendered from the putrid blood Of a slaughtered bullock. I will go back to the very Origin of the legend to tell about it, For where the fortunate Canópians live, By the quivered Parthians' borders, in the delta Of the seven mouths of the river Nile that flows Downhill from the swarthy Indians' country and makes Egypt so fecund with alluvial soil, And where they sail their painted skiffs on fields Where the river waters flooded and grew still, Their safety depends on their knowledge of this art.
First, choose for this purpose a very constricted place, In which, to constrict it further, then construct A narrow shed, roofed with a roof of tile, And close it in with walls close in together, And in the four walls towards the four winds set Four windows letting in the light aslant; And then select a bullock two summers old, His new first horns emerging on his brow, And get the bullock into the shed, and then, Although he struggles against it, stuff up his nostrils And stop up the breath in his mouth, and after that, Beat him to death until his innards collapse Inside his hide; and as his body lies there Put broken branches around him in the shed, And marjoram and thyme, and leave him there. This should be done when the zephyrs with their touch Have just begun to quicken and stir the waves And just before the meadows begin to blush With their new color and just before the chattering Swallow hangs her nest from the high house-rafters. Meanwhile the fluid grows warm in his softening bones, And it ferments, and wonderful new creatures Come into view, footless at first, but soon With humming wings; they swarm, and more and more Try out their wings on the empty air, and then Burst forth like a summer shower from summer clouds Or like a shower of arrows from the bows Of Parthian warriors entering the fray. What god was it, O Muses, who devised An art like this? Where was it that such strange New knowledge came from and was learned by men?
Translated by Goher Munir Khan[/u][/i]
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