Poetry: The call of the cicada

Can you hear the cicada cry?

It has perhaps, nothing to say -

And yet the sounds remind of home,

Lost somewhere far away

 

A wooden house atop a hill,

And a silver stream below -

Red earth, those whistling pines,

Home in the mountains, long ago

 

Lost in the hills, but still a home

Where every journey starts,

Where summers were blue endless skies,  

And winters, stronger hearts

 

And hills that made me fall in love

With melancholy clouds of grey,

Lessons that there can be hope

Beyond a sunny day

 

The cicada stops, I wake to ask

If I go back, will the hills be kind?

But then, home was never far away,

Home was lost, in years behind...