Oconoluftee Farm tree

I cannot tell you the things of my heart,
nor can I reveal all thoughts.
Many of my dreams are still unknown to me,
as are the memories that yesterday brought.
For this is the year of the locust,
and this summer is unlike the rest.
With clear, fragile wings I ascend past the trees
and assume the response I know best....
I am flying.

I cannot hope for tomorrow's return,
nor can I prepare for its stay.
Deep are the clouds that divide my world's sky
into chasms of darkness and day.
For this is the year of the locust,
and this season is not near its end.
Slowly I awaken from my unknowing sleep
and accompany my sky-destined friend.
I am flying.

I only wish I could explain this to you,
why it somehow expresses my pain.
Is this how you feel when you close out the world
in your feeble attempt to attain?
Attain all the answers to the questions unasked?
Know all the knowledge un-thought?
See all the dreams dreamt in nights without sleep?
Remember the battles unfought?
This is the year of the locust,
and its meaning I can't understand.
Like you in your search for unfeeling,
it happens without any demand.