The Last Cicada Poem by Marieta Maglas

Something within the mountain~
a sadness that seeps through the walls;
no human voice; mist to cover all;
cicada becoming only decorative art;
ancestral, sesquipedal echoes of the speaking sky.

When nothing can preserve nature,
neither the birds nor the flowers can survive.

Thinking of the moments when
only the tree shadows move;
following the sun's rays;
playing games with life;
gorgeous bouquets of roses
while losing love.





Copyright © Marieta Maglas

Variant:
The sadness scattered
over the walls resonating
with what was
in the heart
of the mountain.
No sound could be heard.
A myriad of eyes belonging to cicadas
were shrouded in mist.

A somewhat long-winded
like a speech
surrounded the sky.
Maybe it was an echo,
a sesquipedalian one.
It wasn't breathless at all.

Nothing could have saved
nature around.
Neither of the forests,
neither of the birds,
and neither of the bears
could survive…..
Nothing more
could have been done.

All the moving peaks became
small stones, as solitary
as the moon,
at the fugitive horizon.
The last cicada
disappeared.

Everything became motionless.
There were only the shadows
of the trees
to follow the sunbeams.
The nature game
turned detrimentally
into a disaster.

In an illuminated city,
a man bought
a lovely bouquet of red roses
wanting to bestow
what it is considered to be
a symbol of romance.
This man needed
to express his love
and to let his woman know
how he feels about her.
This man disappeared.
He was the last one.
Nothing could have saved him.
Nothing more
could have been done.