Seventeen years, a whispered song,
Beneath the earth, they patiently wait,
A cycle’s rhythm, nature’s mandate.
As seasons change, and years unfold,
In darkness, their story’s told,
A symphony of time and earth,
A tale of wonder, rebirth.
Emerging from their hidden sleep,
They breach the surface, secrets keep,
With exoskeletons left behind,
They spread their wings, their spirits bind.
A fragile grace in summer’s breeze,
Their iridescent wings appease,
A chorus rises, loud and clear,
Their time is now, their moment here.
They dance upon the leafy trees,
A dance of life, carried by the breeze,
A brief existence, vibrant and bright,
A testament to nature’s might.
Their song, a melody of days,
A celebration in the sun’s warm blaze,
And as the summer days descend,
Their presence wanes, their journey’s end.
As shadows lengthen, they return,
To darkness deep, a lesson learned,
A fleeting moment, a cycle’s span,
A miracle of nature’s plan.
So let us cherish this wondrous sight,
The seventeen-year cicada’s flight,
A reminder of life’s fleeting grace,
In every cycle, a sacred space.
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