Blooming Cicadas

I have heard the song of the cicada in Mars. A very curious event, considering that they mostly do not tend to make that here. Not like they could do it on Earth, at least. According to graphic files of the Earth Encyclopedia, the song of cicadas should be a sound particularly melodious and musical, despite the fact that the audivisual records seem rather contradict this, registering a kind of shrill and noisy sound. Maybe under a starry night, among the foliage of huge trees stretching up to a dark sky, sweetened by the gentle summer breeze and the human hearing, it must have descended as a beautiful song over ancient roads and villages.
Here, on the contrary, it is reduced to a disturbing vibration nearly ultrasonic, that can disorient some beasts and even some humans, if they are exposed to it. It is a form of adaptive mutation, the experts say, something very common in species that have been moved from its natural habitat to another completely different. Even so, one person or two can hear them from time to time. That is why, most of the time, as every unique and rare incident, it is connected to the proximity of mysterious or terrible events, like a birth or death.
Over here, on these mountainsides upon the vast martian flatland in the west coast, I have heard them singing, as a murmur of strings opening through, at the melodious edge between the harmony and the discordant clamor of a whispering screech. Will be the same song that crowded another flatlands, over there on the distant Earth? Who knows. The only thing clear is I can hear them singing even now, since that night when two little hands slipped away among mines, slow but relentlessly. I follow the trail of that song, and I climb untill the sheer peak that in other time defied, with its fierce enigma, the advance of the first waves of travelers on Mars. Then. When the whole planet was a red-hot desert of sand and never-ending lava. When the song of the cicadas was so distant, centuries away from any population and acclimation.
Even now it is. Dormant among the deep vibration that startles and stuns, it emerges as an exceptional flower that expels its scent of engimas and foretellings from century to century. And it only left let yourself go. Let be leaded until some rocky promontory, upraised over the ancient valleys of Mars, and wait for the sign. The sign where life and death connect each other in a beautiful and terrible song, bottomless and distant, where I will sink down, at last, until the deepest silent.