CICADA -- 2

Often as I burrow in the dark earth
I hear rumors that there was once a King
Who threw off His old bones
And with careless abandon
Left them hanging on a brittle limb.
I have my doubts, of course.
Yet sometimes dimly 
Through this dying shell
I think I hear him singing.
Can it be that 
This expiring universe
Is but an empty tomb?
Do I dare to hope
That He will sing for me 
Until my hour also comes 
To hang my bones upon a limb?