The hive lies broken, halls of ash,
Once a chorus, now a hushed refrain.
Its walls collapsed by endless drought,
Its wings undone by fields of sameness.
Once a chorus, now a hushed refrain.
Its walls collapsed by endless drought,
Its wings undone by fields of sameness.
Through darkened glass, the truth is clear:
Bees withered by the thirst of soil,
Others trapped in rows of one,
A kingdom strangled by its fire.
Hexa once bore the crown of court,
But jewels will not rebuild the hive.
No throne commands the hands of many,
No scepter births the world anew.
Her mind turns fields of ash to seed,
Where memory breathes in future form.
A hive imagined first in thought,
Then shaped by hands, made true in lore.
She bends to lift the tools of labor,
Symbols etched in earth and song.
A hive reborn through common work,
Not ruled, but built — alive, belonging.
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