Honey is the word of Christ the melted gold of his love.
The beyond of nectar, the mummy of the light in paradise.
The hive is a chaste star, amber well that feeds the rhythm
of bees. Breast of the fields trembling of aromas and humming.
Honey is the epic of love, materiality of the infinite.
Soul and painful blood of flowers condensed through another spirit.
(So honey of man is the poetry that flows from his aching breast,
from a comb with the wax of memory shaped by the intimate bee.)
Honey is the distant retreat of the shepherd, the shawm and the olive tree,
sister of milk and acorns, supreme queens of the golden century.
Honey is like the morning sun, with all the grace of summertime
and the old freshness of autumn. It is the withered leaf and it is the corn.
Oh divine liqueur of humbleness serene as a primitive verse!
The harmony made flesh you are, the inspired summary of the lyrics.
In you sleeps the melancholy, the secret of the kiss and of the shout.
Sweetest. Sweet. This is your adjective. Sweet as the belly of women.
Sweet as the eyes of children. Sweet as the shadows of the night.
Sweet like a voice. Or like a lilly.
For whom carries the pain and the lyre,
you are the sun that shines on the path.
You equal all beauties, to the color, to the light, to the sounds.
Oh! Divine liqueur of hope with the perfection of balance
soul and matter like in the holy bread, body and light of Christ.
And the higher soul is of flowers, Oh liquor whose souls you have united!
Who tastes you does not know that he swallows a golden summary of lyrism.
~Federico Garcia Lorca