The Cicada Tree

A calendar underground
A life of slumber we won't be found
So new to wings and to flight
Our stuttered song a proof of life to be

Overwhelmed by the instinct of the chime
Death is near and we waste no time
We are the prophets of Spring
Sound of the drums we lull to sleep
We magnify under trees
Our chorus hangs upon the breeze to hear

A calendar underground
A life of slumber we won't be found
We magnify under trees
Our chorus hangs upon the breeze to hear