Fragments of a child, in a little hive buzzing.
With a thin thread tangled in a mood of fussing.
Ah, my beloved, what a messy state of being,
They call you a tiny kid, yet you feel so big.

Once you become a youngling, with lost connections,
Then, you will remember this moment with confessions.
Ripening fruit of yours, be careful not to let it go rotten,
For all the things so mature, bound to be forgotten.

When you’re grown up with a dead God at your feet,
Lift yourself up and find a new path to make ends meet.
Buzzing bees will stop at a certain moment.
You must adapt and ensure they never go silent.

For what lies ahead-unpredictable erosions,
I am out of advice, even for me, unreached it remains.
I know the inconsistent future deeply saddens
But keep your worries far until the moment arrives.

You tend to see the bad through your hazy eyes,
Yet always look for the good in whatever happens.
Pessimistic nature of yours, still untamed.
It’s our job to nurture and make it congruent.