Cicada

I left my chrysalis hanging.
It must still hang
where I worked out my exiting entry.

My wings have dried,
and I am already singing
my sleepy song.

I perform on hot afternoons daily.

I not allowed to eat in this life, 
nonetheless am prey
to sparrows and wasps that pursue. 

My songs betray me.

I have laid my eggs  
and so am physically empty,  
just like the case out of which I climbed
days ago.

And now I am soon to die.
It does not seem fair,
except for my joy when I’m singing.

Singing has to make it right.