The cicadas sang
The end of the summer
In my pocket
I carried the weight of an unsent
Love letter
My Darling,
If one day, all the roses wilt and all the leaves have fallen,
would you still choose to water the bushes and pick up the pieces?
Would you still sing beautiful melodies in the morning if the sun was hidden
beneath a field of clouds?
For one day, I, too, will be withered.
I, too, will crave to hear your sound.
The cicadas sang
The end of the summer
In my pocket
I carried the weight of an unsent
Love letter
My Darling,
If one day, all the roses wilt and all the leaves have fallen,
would you still choose to water the bushes and pick up the pieces?
Would you still sing beautiful melodies in the morning if the sun was hidden
beneath a field of clouds?
For one day, I, too, will be withered.
I, too, will crave to hear your sound.