The Cricket is a powerless creature.
It sits amongst blades of grass, hiding from an enormous world of cats and birds and things, open mouths and curious fingers clutching open glass jars. It cannot fly, save for those fleeting moments when its two tiny legs burst forth beneath it, sending its crisp winged form into the air, to land whereever the wind may choose. It lives a short and perhaps frivolous life, wasting away in search of a mate, a perch, a place to sit a spell.
But when the sun settles on the other side of the world, this powerless creature finds its voice, a simple chirp of friction in a cool crisp evening. And it is not alone. A thousand voices, a thousand songs, all just as perfect, just as subtle as the next, join in chorus to fill the night air with music.
That song can still the most savage heart, quell a fury of tears, channel the words of a dying god, and help a blind man see the world anew.
Oh yes, the Cricket is a powerless creature.