The cicadas are the loudest now,
When it's quiet enough for them to crawl out of long silence's brow,
And whisper their songs to the earth,
Weaving their stories of darkness and birth,
A murmur that holds ages older than old
Knowledge and youth will not shrink from the cold,
Acceptance, no fear, understanding so clear

That they don't matter at all

Yet they all sing, and their voices all bring, bring forth a single call

They sing not in words
For they don't mean to be heard

They simply wanted to sing