The Cicada
A thousand summer songs hide inside me. I open my mouth and
passionately try to put them in order. I sing lousy. Yet thanks to my
song I differ from the bark of the branches and from the other
voiceless natural speakers. My modest attire, gray and whitewash,
blocks my sensuous furor and being separated from dazzling
celebrations of time, I sing. I don’t know of spring, Easter or violets.
The only resurrection I know is when a little wind perks up to refresh
the horrible heat of my life a little. Now, I stop yelling, or singing as
people think, since the miracle of breeze inside me says a lot more
than what I create so that I won’t die of the heat.
