Rivers of honey where the bees are constantly berating,
scolding the indigenous purple petal.
The hive, like a tavern, hidden in the oak,
O how the river has established a vengeful bank.
You, O river, have surely completely constricted,
the drink of the beast and plant\'s synthesis.
Under your thickness, wax-like satire,
the coral has surely turned from its vivid image.
Still, you persist in your vengeful trouble,
flowing from the oak\'s meagre hold.
Disturbed, have you, the owl\'s howl and rest,
the squirrel quarrels with the bird for the branch.
The tavern you\'ve established is yet over-ridden
the Queen has surely not yet birthed
the worker of the hive is much in the scolding,
as the purple petal is in its time.
The bed you illumine and nourish O river,
the bed- so dark, hated, frozen.
And like a cruel blessing, from God you illumine,
the fish and its nourishing treasure.
Paradise, O river, has flown from that tavern,
and the drunkard complains about the honey.
The honey-purely sweet forever,
does not match the bittersweet of the wine.