What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his? —EM Cioran I watched her die this morning. Her pollen-encrusted legs scrabbled on cement, scattering a constellation. Sun shone brilliantly on the mustard coloured hairs of her body, the iridescent wings, pitch-black eye. Winding down into death’s irrevocable spin, her body hummed— the memory of a hive. Finally, with a single quiver of the antennae— life was gone. Her body lay toppled, Its amber perfection immutable The cloying scent of bellflower permeated the air like a lie.