The Black Prince

When I was a young hunter in greengrocer trees,
this dark cicada, this black prince was, was prized as though
it were a creeping rarity, a flying jewel.
For long and buried years it sucked the sap of roots;
at last it climbed from earth, feet hooking to the trunk,
and broke from thin, brown armour into the drying sun
and slowly hardened wrinkled and transparent wings.

Reborn.

Five-eyed.

Mark Scrivener