Letters to a burning land (Marcella Boccia)
I write to you with hands stained in dusk,fingers trembling with the weight of ash.The sky is no longer sky—it is a wound split open, spilling fire into the bones of the earth.What words survive in the mouth of ruin?What verses can be born from the throat of war?I have only this ink, heavy as blood,only these letters, scattered like bonesin the silence between explosions.The rivers drink the dead,their names sinking beneath the currents,while the mountains wear the echoes of screams,wrapped in the smoke of nameless homes.Tell me, how does a mother holdwhat the war has taken?I send these words like prayers without a god,folded into the wind,pressed between the ribs of a city that does not sleep.If they reach you,if they are not swallowed by the flames,read them aloud—let the wind carry them back to me,a whisper, a requiem, a proofthat someone is still listening.
