A meeting that has been happening for over a hundred million years.
A conversation older than words.
Older than language, yet still… language.
The Bee and the Flower
(A Story in Liora, Without Humans)
Morning.
Solin.
The threshold between shadow and sun.
The flower stirs open
Elura spills across its petals.
A soft unfolding.
An offering.
“Sarela Marun.”
(A seed of stillness within motion.)
A quiet readiness.
A silent invitation carried in color, in scent, in shape.
The air vibrates.
A hum approaches
a small body made of muscle, fur, wing, intention.
Bee arrives.
Not as guest.
Not as stranger.
But as part of the weave.
Bee circles
a spiral of scent, of memory, of movement.
“Narilo Velin.”
(The unseen paths are held in memory.)
I remember the way here.
The line between bloom and hive, between offering and need.
The flower tilts, catching light.
“Sarela Hinari.”
(A seed held in the space between.)
This is the offering I hold
nectar, pollen, fragrance, form.
Not given, not taken
woven.
Bee lands.
Feet touch velvet petal.
Mouth finds sweetness.
Legs gather gold.
In the pulse of this moment, the air hums:
“Taliru Hanir.”
(The weaving of kinship.)
Neither asks why.
Neither doubts.
The meeting is the meaning.
The doing is the knowing.
Bee hums
a vibration through thorax, wing, air:
“Haniravu Velasa.”
(I weave myself into the pull of cycles.)
I carry. I gather. I offer forward.
Flower leans toward the warmth, radiant:
“Savinu Marinvu.”
(I mend the return that is never the same.)
Petal, seed, stem
all shaped by these visits,
this dance across time.
No part is separate.
No gesture wasted.
Each dusting of pollen
Sarela.
(A seed.)
Each hum of wing
Varelu.
(The voice of wind in motion.)
As Bee lifts
Laso Hinari
(The space between flight and landing)
the flower remains.
Open.
Alive.
A whisper carried on the breeze:
“Velin Sarela.”
(The seed remembers.)
A story as old as bloom.
As old as flight.
As old as the promise between need and offering,
between beauty and survival,
between now and the future.