Love will wither, they say,

Love will fade, just like

The rose. But don’t you see,

Says the poet, just as

Every nightingale 

Is the same nightingale,

Every rose is the same rose

That the blind Milton held close

And could not see. Yet Sappho,

Generation after generation of

Women who sing for love,

Are roses.

They die and they arise.

Letting out a cry that flies across 

The shining sea

And moves the stone

And makes it bloom.

It’s called the Siren songs,

But we know better—we know the truth—

It’s the earthly miracle.

June 11 01:00