Even those who few days ago “cursed the heat” are not indifferent to the trail of nostalgia that the Being of Summer, now reduced to a breath, leaves behind.
Every now and then you hear some male cicada, whose song, once lively and incessant, has become only a whisper.
Who knows if he realizes that the season is over, and that his cycle, so long in the darkness of the earth and so short under the sun, has now come to an end.
