AI Poem of the Week: Cicadas’ Song

Cicadas’ Song

Beneath the earth’s warm quilt, they slumbered, Cicadids, ancient wanderers, cocooned in soil. Their secret pact with time—seventeen years, A cryptic countdown to emergence.

And then, one balmy morning, they stir, Breaking free from earthen shackles. Their exoskeletons split, like old promises, And out they crawl, nymphs reborn as song.

Wings Unfurl, delicate parchment stretched taut, Veins etched with whispers of forgotten summers. They cling to tree trunks, their chorus tuning, As if rehearsing for a celestial opera.

Their Timbals, tiny drummers, vibrate with fervor, A symphony of longing, of pent-up desire. They sing of sun-drenched leaves and moonlit nights, Of roots entwined, and love stories whispered.

Seventeen Years, and now they ascend, Their bodies adorned in armor of green and bronze. They cling to branches, their eyes faceted prisms, Drinking in the world they missed—a lifetime compressed.

Mating Calls, urgent and primal, echo through the woods, A serenade to mates unseen, yet sensed. The air quivers with their ardor, a pulsing rhythm, As if the very earth hums in harmony.

And when the sun dips low, they retreat, Their brief existence fading like twilight’s blush. But fear not, dear cicadid, for your song lingers, A memory etched in bark, a promise of return.

Seventeen more years, and you shall rise again, To serenade the summer, to weave your magic. Until then, rest, sweet minstrel of the soil, For your song lives on, echoing in our hearts.