Sappho wept
sorrowing
for her lost poems,
sorrowing
for all the women
from her time to mine
who dared creating art
for it to be
judged an artefact
worth less
beyond worthless
compared to art
created by men.
Countless poems by women
tossed aside,
Countless paintings
erased,
canvases painted over.
Her creations
violated into palimpsests
of unspoken pain
by man’s hand.
Words by women
read only by them
(and then by those
empowered to destroy)
blazed bonfires
prolonging the night
Still
we wait
for light.
Sappho wept
for the remnants left
of her voice
Sappho wept
for so much
too much
silenced,
Sappho wept.
