![]() Now Death was inspecting his bees, gently lifting the combs in his skeletal fingers.Ī few bees buzzed around him. The scythe that had done the work leaned against the gnarled bole of a pear tree. But there are also eight colours of blackness, for those that have the seeing of them, and the hives of Death are among the black grass in the black orchard under the black-blossomed, ancient boughs of trees that will, eventually, produce apples that. It is well known the eight colours make up white. ![]() ![]() The honey is black as night, thick as sin and sweet as treacle. The bees of Death are big and black, they buzz low and sombre, they keep their honey in combs of wax as white as alter candles. ![]()
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