We await the fated Glory
Below the Earth as ugly drones
Sipping on the staff of life
Perchance to see the glowing stone
We are all told every day
We are disgusting, plain, unwanted
We pray to the image of beauty
Glittering, shining, blissful, vaunted
We are unworthy
We are sacrosanct
We have nothing
We have potential
We must clean and scrub and sew
Yet our brilliance captures you
Eventually our day, it comes
And we all open our wings as one
Glory is precious, beauty is fleeting
Life anew and a million hearts beating
And I hear the chorus
Even though it's the end
Even though the first breath
Is the nectar and flower of Death
But still I have waited, and so I sing
For I am special, and I am wanted!
I am Nature's herald and king!
But after the briefness of the spring
I fall to Winter with broken wing.
((Here's the cicada poem, as promised. I guess I found myself empathizing with them. What it must be like to live such a short life as an adult in your prime, spending decades as an ugly child among millions...)