Dust and prayers (Marcella Boccia)
The evening bends like a tired beggar,draped in the hush of unsaid words.Dust rises from the earth in soft laments,whispers of footsteps long vanished,of hands that once built and destroyed,of names carried away by the wind.Prayers hang in the air,weightless as candle smoke,climbing unseen toward a silent sky.Do the heavens listen, I wonder,or do they only collect echoes—a hymn of the forsaken,a song with no reply?I walk where the dust clings to my skin,where the river drinks the light of dying suns,where the air tastes of longing and loss.In this place, even silence has a voice,even absence has a shape.Somewhere, beneath the ruins of yesterday,someone still prays for mercy,someone still gathers the broken hours,threading them into rosaries of hope.But the dust does not answer.The dust only rises.And the prayers keep burning,like stars no one looks for anymore.
