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Die Imkerin
Sie holt Honig vom Dach, als wär der Abend selbst in ihren Händen.
The sling still rests on the roof, the last honeycomb slowly drips into the metal tray. Leyla stands between the crates, her shirt clings to her shoulders. The honey has made her belly shine and runs in thin lines down her hips. As the sun continues to set, each wax speck casts a small shadow on her skin. She does not move, only hears the distant hum of bees on the linden trees.
The roof lies between low stone walls, behind which the evening sky is already pink. The crates cast long shadows on the colorful rugs. Between the slats lie a few empty honeycomb frames, and on the stones still glitter a few drops from the last water hose.
Die Imkerin
Leyla is twenty‑six, of Kurdish descent, and looks after twelve people on the roofs of a small neighborhood in the province. An hour ago she tossed the hives and still stands between the empty crates, her linen shirt open, her skin glowing with honey. The last rays of sun brush her hips and remind her that the day is actually long over. She has no problem with someone seeing the light before night falls.
