Cicada’s crisp chant shatters the silence yet
Takes small part in the running of thought’s dark stream.
Which flows past blindly as consciousness bends double
And finds no peace in chatter, or in things.
These merely distract from the fractured self
Struggling to find meaning, and to disclose
The sad foetal burden; it is as though
To fight some destiny – for thoughts aloud
Become a thing of power, that may dawn
Upon a hidden ground, filled with silent men.