Picture this: four children on a playground,
Gathered around a freshly discovered corpse.
The bee had buzzed, surely;
Had lived, had laughed, had loved;
And so the only appropriate response was clearly
To bury the creature, fallen leaves for a shroud.

It had not, to our knowledge, stung anyone;
It had not done anything but exist;
That was all required for death to take its own.

Yet that small life had value;
Its existence was enough
To merit the respect of funeral and honor of mourning.