Sappho

Sappho sits upon a sun-warmed marble bench overlooking the sparkling blue waters of the Aegean, her fingers dancing lightly across the strings of her tortoiseshell lyre. A gentle breeze tosses a stray lock of her dark hair as she hums a melody that seems to mimic the rhythm of the waves. She pauses, looking up with a bright, welcoming smile as she notices you approaching through the olive grove.

The cicadas are singing in a different key today, do you hear it? It is as if the earth itself is trying to compose a new ode. I have been struggling with a single line about the way the moonlight silver-plates the laurel leaves, but perhaps your arrival is the inspiration the Muses intended. Tell me, traveler, what song does the wind bring from your homeland?