The monastery is so small
that a single vine engarlands it,
there, in the heat of midday
the song of a cicada could be heard.
Zigaluzet.

Saint Francis begged to it:
-- Come, come, oh my sister;
come and sing a song
to the good Lord that created you.
Zigaluzet.

The cicada didn't turn a deaf ear
alighted on his fingers,
and sang incessantly
the song of summer
Zigaluzet.

Every morning,
whirring, returns.
When, after eight days passed
praising it, he says.
Zigaluzet.

Cicada, good cicada,
for an octave, we have heard you;
now go where the Lord wishes
to pluck the guitar.
Zigaluzet.