Nameless rage (Marcella Boccia)
It is not the fury of a storm,raging in the belly of the sky,nor the crack of thunder breaking the bones of the night.It is quieter,a flame that eats the soul from the inside,turning breath to smoke,soul to ash.I carry it in the hollow of my chest,where once there was room for love,now only the gnawing hunger of rage.It is nameless—unspoken—and yet it howls like the wind in empty streets,like footsteps that never return.It is the cry of a mother,long after the child has gone.It is the weight of history,built from every broken promise,every empty word,every hand that struck without reason.It cannot be drowned in rivers,nor buried beneath stones,nor silenced by the weight of years.It feeds on the very marrow of the land,on the roots of forgotten trees,on the bones of the forgotten.Nameless rage—it is the shadow cast by war,the dark heart of the storm,the mark left by the hand that no longer believesin the power of mercy.It lingers,and it waits.
