In Prison the Cicadas Still Sing
Along the road running west
The cicadas sing
And from the south too
So loudly it sounds like
A visitor approaching
How long the song lasts
From their fragile black wings
Yet my white shaggy head
Detects a note of gloom
As autumn’s heavy mists
Make flight unthinkable
And the wind grows stronger
Their song will be submerged
So too by my fellow man
I have been left here forgotten
No one shows the least regard
For the songs that yet
Would fill my heart
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