cicadas

— — —

Deep in the soil, there lays the grubs

Digging their way up, they toil, and toil,

To spread their irridescent wings

under the dewy light of the sun,

And to sing their souls out, each and every one

Years pass by, but their ways do not change

All they know is to dig, to pave their own way

But above the soil, there is no dewy light

No wind to be felt under their wings,

No space for them to spread

For above the soil there is only concrete,

no way to escape, no chance to breach

The cicadas do not know of sunlight,

But they know there must be something above the ground

Something other than the cold soil and darkness

in which they have lived

Something else to be found.