Cicada Poem by Glenda Cimino

How beautiful the cicadas'song,

How holy the insect voices

Rise to heaven.



How homely and comforting

The steady trill of their choir

In the dark night.



Yet some say each cicada

Is the restless, reborn soul

Of a dead poet -



A spendthrift who did not respect

The gifts of his muse

But squandered his inspiration



Til the poems died, nameless,

While waiting to be born

And the silence grew deafening.



How with cicada's wings

He now fervently delivers

His unuttered poems



He can never again be silent

Even if no human understands

His heart's outpouring.



How beautiful the cicada's song

How purely the insect voices

Rise to heaven.