Untitled
The crickets star in the nighttime symphony
yet no one is listening.
They sing of seasons change;
they sing of seasons passed.
They warn of disaster not too far away.
No one listens anymore.
The bittersweet cry becomes distant as the sounds of the city grow.
The stars shed no more light on the stage
the concert has fewer visitors.
No one listens anymore.
The crickets are beginning to quiet
dying from the toxins of machine giants.
Now it’s too late to listen.
Their song is sorely missed.
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