Cicada ! O happy cicada ! On a bed of earth you die. drunk with light. Or is it human's how can be compared...

You know form the fields
the secret of life;
you keep the tale
of that old fairy
who could hear the grass be born.

Cicada !
Oh happy cicada !
For you die under blood
of a deep blue heart.

The light is God descending,
and the sun
the chink it filters through.

Cicada !
Oh happy cicada !
For you feel in your throes
all the weight of the blue.

Everything alive that passes
through death's doors
goes head down, with
a white somnolent air.
With speech only thought.
Soundless ... sadly,
cloaked with silence,
the mantel of death.

But you, cicada,
die enchanted, spilling music,
transfigured in sound
and heavenly light.

Cicada !
Sonorous star
over sleeping fields,
old friend of the frogs
and the shadowy crickets,
you have golden tombs
in turbulent sunbeams
that wound you, sweet
in the vigor of summer.
The sun carries off your soul
to make it into light.

Let my heart be a cicada
over heavenly fields.
Let it die singing slow,
wounded by the blue sky.
And, as it fades,
let this woman I foresee
scatter it through the dust
with her hands.

And let my blood on the field
make sweet and rosy mud
where weary peasants
sink their hoes.

Cicada !
Oh happy cicada !
For you are wounded by
invisible swords
from the blue.