Babara Geeya

Buzz, buzz, buzz… buzz, buzz, buzz…
To a flower, to a vine,
softly, to a flower, to the pollen, to a tree, to a vine, at morning, at evening, gently, softly

Nuzzling the flowers, hanging on the vines,
sipping the pollen,
humming its “roong”

From flower to flower
from vine to vine
from tree to tree
from pollen to pollen

From flower to flower, from vine to vine,
from tree to tree, from pollen to pollen

Flower-buzz, flower-buzz, flower-buzz, buzz
vine-buzz, vine-buzz, vine-buzz, buzz
pollen-buzz, pollen-buzz, pollen-buzz, buzz
flower-buzz, vine-buzz, pollen-buzz, buzz

At morning, buzz, buzz, buzz
at evening, buzz, buzz, buzz
to a flower, buzz, buzz, buzz
to the pollen, buzz, buzz, buzz

Morning and evening, when it looks all around,
gently to a flower, savouring, sweetly

In the belly of the air, buzz, buzz, buzz
in the womb of the sky, buzz, buzz, buzz
in the ripple of the breeze, buzz, buzz, buzz
at daybreak, buzz, buzz, buzz
here and there, buzz, buzz, buzz
whirring along, buzz, buzz, buzz
crying “roong”, buzz, buzz, buzz
spreading its wings, buzz, buzz, buzz
fanning its wings, buzz, buzz, buzz
in the stillness, buzz, buzz, buzz
in a thin, high whine, buzz, buzz, buzz
chasing on its wings, buzz, buzz, buzz

In the belly of the air, in the womb of the sky, in the ripple of the breeze, at daybreak,
here and there, whirring along, crying “roong”, spreading its wings,
fanning its wings, in the stillness, in a thin high whine, chasing on its wings

This is a piece of pure sound-play, and it is best enjoyed for exactly what it is rather than searched for hidden depth. It is Sunil Santha’s “Song of the Bee,” and almost the entire lyric is made of the bee’s own buzzing, “gum gum gum,” woven together with the tiny words of its day: flower to flower, vine to vine, tree to tree, pollen to pollen, morning and evening. The words are chosen for their music, not their message.

What the song does, brilliantly, is turn language into the sound of an insect at work. The clipped, repeating syllables, “malgum, walgum, rongum,” imitate a bee darting and humming, and the poem follows it everywhere: through “the belly of the air” and “the womb of the sky,” in “the ripple of the breeze” and at daybreak, “whirring,” “spreading its wings,” “in a thin high whine,” “chasing on its wings.” You do not so much read it as hear it.

So the meaning is simply the thing itself: the ceaseless, joyful industry of a bee moving from bloom to bloom, gathering pollen from dawn to dusk, rendered as music. It belongs to Sunil Santha’s playful, experimental side, where a song can celebrate something as small and ordinary as a bee’s flight by becoming its sound. What the listener is left with is not a story or an emotion but a smile, and the lively buzz of a garden morning caught in words.