
THE CICADA
A thousand songs hide inside me every summer. 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 all my sensuous furor and being separated from dazzling celebrations of time, I sing. I don’t know of Spring, Easter and violets. The only resurrection I know is when a little wind perks up to refresh a little the horrible heat of my life. 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.