pistle of the First Cicada

My dear friend, the ink is wet upon this page, Writing to you from a fading, distant age. The humidity gathers in this quiet room, Chasing away the last of the rainy gloom. I felt a shiver as the wind began to change, A familiar heat, both beautiful and strange. Do you remember the slope we used to climb? Frozen in the amber of our childhood time. The Cobalt sea is calling from the bay, Just like it did on that long-forgotten day. I picked up my pen as the shadows grew so long, Waiting for the beat of a mid-summer song. Cicada... Can you hear the first cry? On the cobblestone path where we waved goodbye. Summer has come to wake the ghosts of July, Under the shimmering, wide and open sky. (Ah... it's finally here) The mirage dances on the rusted rail, Telling a story that is ancient and frail. I'll seal this letter with a sigh and a prayer, Hoping the scent of the sea reaches you there. Cicada... I can hear the first cry! Echoing through the blue, where the white birds fly. Summer has come to claim the ghosts of July, Weaving our memories into the burning sky. The ink is dry, the day is almost done. Waiting for the heat of the rising sun.