After four years spent under ground,
in darkness, to excavate the ground of its peaks; carrying coat of muddy parchment,
our Cicada leaves, gets rid of its carapace. Here covered with an elegant
costume, equipped with wings like the bird.
Grayed heat and of sun, drunk of sap, flooded light.
Pleasure of feeling to live, our Cicada will sing during five to six weeks,
then to die. It is the end in the concert.
Four years, on average, of hard work under ground, one month of festival to
the sun, such would be the life of the Cicada!
We saw that our Cicada had many predatory, I omitted one of size of them:
the man.
Protection, in the world, certain plantations, attacked by the larvae of cicadas,
brought the total disappearance of our insect.
Will the use of the pesticides, the extension of the habitat in the ecosystems,
the terrible fires of forests on the Mediterranean circumference, one day
offer a quiet summer to us? Will we have to be satisfied with the Cicadas
with ceramics and other objects, like remembering the provençaux summers?
{I like enough what wrote in 1905, O Richemont:
" And us also, we should leave our skin with the ground, to disencumber
us of slags and of the alluvia, it is necessary for us to rise, tend unceasingly
towards I' overseas of the firmament, to gain the higher spheres, the joint
areas of the Infinite one. All, in Creation, speaks to us about rise. If sad
of the so painful man often the existence is the company! Ah! let us desert
the hollows from our covetousnesses and the cesspool of our miseries! Eh!
aren't we made for the tops, for open spaces, without borders, bordering on
the stay of God, of this God, light eternal, the genuine sun which we owe,
us also, to greet of our anthems? "}
