When the queen falls—
That single pulse of order,
The mother of rhythm—
The hive holds its breath.
No eggs.
No future.
Silence creeps between the honeycomb corridors.
Stillness,
Where flight once sang.
But the bees do not mourn.
They do not wait for rescue
Like prayers sent upward
Into the indifferent wind.
Instead, they begin.
Not with miracles.
Not with might.
But with the slightest gesture:
A feeding.
One larva,
Then another—
No different than the rest,
No gold-threaded birthright,
No lightning in the womb—
Is chosen.
Not for what she is,
But for what she might become.
They feed her royal jelly—
A nectar thick with purpose,
A mother’s whisper made into substance.
It coats her future
In protein and light,
Rearranging time,
Rethreading the body
Into something larger
Than labor
Or lineage.
She is not born a queen.
She is made.
By attention.
By care.
By collective will.
She rises not by chance
But by design—
Not of blood,
But of belief.
And when she spreads her wings,
Carrying the future in her belly,
The hive hums again.
The order returns,
Not as it was,
But remade
Through crisis and instinct
And quiet revolution.
The bees remember what we forget—
That greatness
Is not in the bone,
But in the tending.
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