This Quiet Moment
On a midsummer day, the cicada cries.
I cry, too.
You cry, too.
The sound of a car is heard.
As if forgotten just now,
that sound drifts further away.
It stops.
The cry of the cicada.
We stop, too.
It shines.
This quiet, still moment.
The cicada cries again.
Who are we?
“Mae-mae, mae-mae.”
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