The Last Cicada

Something within the mountain~ a sadness that seeps through the walls; no human voice; mist to cover all; cicada becoming only decorative art; ancestral, sesquipedal echoes of the speaking sky. When nothing can preserve nature, neither the birds nor the flowers can survive. Thinking of the moments when only the tree shadows move; following the sun's rays; playing games with life; gorgeous bouquets of roses while losing love. Copyright © Marieta Maglas Variant: The sadness scattered over the walls resonating with what was in the heart of the mountain. No sound could be heard. A myriad of eyes belonging to cicadas were shrouded in mist. A somewhat long-winded like a speech surrounded the sky. Maybe it was an echo, a sesquipedalian one. It wasn't breathless at all. Nothing could have saved nature around. Neither of the forests, neither of the birds, and neither of the bears could survive….. Nothing more could have been done. All the moving peaks became small stones, as solitary as the moon, at the fugitive horizon. The last cicada disappeared. Everything became motionless. There were only the shadows of the trees to follow the sunbeams. The nature game turned detrimentally into a disaster. In an illuminated city, a man bought a lovely bouquet of red roses wanting to bestow what it is considered to be a symbol of romance. This man needed to express his love and to let his woman know how he feels about her. This man disappeared. He was the last one. Nothing could have saved him. Nothing more could have been done.