Lured by the illusory odour of summer’s air, cicadas crawl through the dark tunnel, out of the soaked soil, to bathe in the warm and humid night. For four whole years, almost their entire life, they have waited patiently, feeding on the endless darkness of their underground cradles yet preparing to soar and sing when the day finally comes. However, little did they know, another winter is coming, as fierce as its predecessor. Yes, tomorrow, with thunders rolling and storms hailing, it will strike and tear asunder these cicadas’ fragile dreams.
Will Tithonus weep bitter tears, not for his own cursed fate of immortality, but for the ephemeral existence of these melodious mourners in this illusory night?
Dead leaves fall, swirl and blow; cicadas wait for their fate and the storm’s coming.
