The sky over Jhelum (Marcella Boccia)
The sky over Jhelum is not a sky—it is a wound split open by time,a whisper stretched thin over the river’s breath,where the dusk bleeds into the watersand the waters carry the weight of sorrowwithout ever breaking.I have stood on its banks,where the air tastes of longingand the mountains press their silence into my skin.The boats drift like forgotten prayers,their wooden ribs creaking under the weightof words never spoken.Somewhere, beyond the mist,your voice is a thread of wind,a tremor in the hush of twilight,a song unfinished,left in the hands of the riverto be carried away,to be drowned,to be remembered.Tell me—do you ever look at this skyand feel the same ache pressing against your ribs?Do you hear the water call my namein the language of ghosts?The sky over Jhelum is not a sky—it is a mirror where the past does not fade,where love does not end,where we are forever waitingon opposite shoresfor a bridge that will never be built.
