Your voice rises from the sea’s blue throat, Sappho—
lyre strings trembling where the white waves break, Sappho.
Girls danced beneath the moon’s pale breast on Lesbos,
their laughter sweeter than the honeyed wine, Sappho.
You sang desire sharp as myrtle leaves in summer,
a fire no husband’s law could ever tame, Sappho.
Time tears your poems into scattered petals—
yet every burning line still calls your name, Sappho.
O priestess of the kiss that dares not speak in daylight,
your island still remembers what you claimed, Sappho.
I read your fragments under midnight’s quiet lamp—
and feel your heartbeat quicken in my veins, Sappho.
Though centuries grind your marble into silence,
the ache you named remains forever flame, Sappho.