She walks on the edge of the wind,
voice braided with sea and olive,
each syllable a spark struck
from the tinder of longing.
Island-born, where the waves fold
like a lover’s arm,
she counts the pulses of hearts
as though each beat were a star.
You burn me
my limbs betray me
my voice falters in the bright air
I watch you laugh
and the blood rushes
like rivers breaking through stone
Love, her fierce, ungoverned altar,
her temple built of sighs and glances,
where even the gods tremble
before the flame of her desire
Sweetness, just a step away
the fruit trembles, I reach, it escapes
Fragments of awe scatter
like petals on the waves
and yet the echo bends centuries
pulling hearts through time
toward her gaze
Even the stones of Lesbos
remember the curve of her fingers
the curve of a single glance
Aphrodite bends to hear her
the islands tremble
under the weight of her longing
O Poetess, tenth Muse, mother of song,
your fire leaps across silence
threads through our veins
teaching hearts to burn
teaching words to live
She is voice, she is flame
she is awe uncontained
and we, centuries later
still tremble at the echo of her glance
