How beautiful the cicadas'song,
How holy the insect voices
Rise to heaven.
How homely and comforting
The steady trill of their choir
In the dark night.
Yet some say each cicada
Is the restless, reborn soul
Of a dead poet -
A spendthrift who did not respect
The gifts of his muse
But squandered his inspiration
Til the poems died, nameless,
While waiting to be born
And the silence grew deafening.
How with cicada's wings
He now fervently delivers
His unuttered poems
He can never again be silent
Even if no human understands
His heart's outpouring.
How beautiful the cicada's song
How purely the insect voices
Rise to heaven.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem