The Cicadas’ Hymn

Beneath the green cathedral of leaves, a hidden choir stirs the air— their wings, thin lanterns of sound, igniting the silence with tremors of song. Each voice is small, yet woven together they rise like summer’s heartbeat, a pulse that rattles the heavy dusk, reminding the world of its restless spirit. They sing not of sorrow, nor of joy, but of being—pure and unbroken; a chant older than memory, a hymn carved into the hot wind. And when night softens their endless chorus, the trees still seem to echo with life, as if the earth itself were breathing through the fragile throats of cicadas.