Now we see a blood moon corrodes
On our roof and rust falls to clouds.
In the bloody confusion rain forgets
To fall on the city’s parched tongue.
All our farmers are up on the trees,
Their tongues tasting tree’s cold air.
It seems they are entirely corroded.
All things corrode and even moon
We had seen in childhood coconut.
The moon is made of a fragile iron
That rusts of too much rain clouds.
Rust in peace, we utter in requiem.
Sappho, spelled (in the dialect spoken by the poet) Psappho, (born c. 610, Lesbos, Greece — died c. 570 BCE). A lyric poet greatly admired in all ages for the beauty of her writing style.
Her language contains elements from Aeolic vernacular and poetic tradition, with traces of epic vocabulary familiar to readers of Homer. She has the ability to judge critically her own ecstasies and grief, and her emotions lose nothing of their force by being recollected in tranquillity.
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Nature Poetry 
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