Little crickets are in the fields
Hidden under the bushes.
How beautifully they sing
Without appearing.
They tell stories unceasingly,
Singing until out of breath.
They talk about green grass,
Birds and trees,
Mention the rising sun, moonlight,
The sweet breeze.

In the tender quietness of the night,
Many stories they tell.
Nobody listens to their stories,
Nobody understands.
They scream blue-murder,
Nobody hears.

Little crickets,
Don't get tired.
There must be some people
Listening to your stories,
Assimilating them with pleasure,
Longing for the new ones,
Passing by your private houses.

But it is not enough for you,
Talking about birds and trees,
Mentioning the rising sun, moonlight.
Madly you exhaust your little bodies
And scrape your sad story
Tightly into nature.
The sad story is much bigger
Than the crickets, so little.

There'll come a day
When you'll stay in the past
With your stories from nature's book.
Then nobody will know,
And nobody will hear a bit
Of your stories so sweet.

......................................................
Published in a Maxis Review Maygrove
College Publication. Detroit, U.S.A.