Dying Cicadas
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
May at least just one
Of them live on this night,
Autumn cicada.
~ Yayū
Much weaker and much weaker comes the sound
Cicadas sing (since some might call it song).
In scrape-like singing autumn coldness drowned
Them, killed off almost all the choiring throng.
A few remain as hidden as they are
In nettled, nettling summer, human ears
Affronted by that chorus and its jar
Against calm silence. Concerts have no fears
Of death, or if they do, hide worry in
Their scratching whirrs, shrugging insectivores
Away from minds, protected by wide din,
Those multi-noted, overarching scores.
The poet hopes that some will still live on
Inside his dreaming midnight till the dawn.
~ Phillip Whidden
