An Irishman’s smile (Marcella Boccia)

It’s the quiet before the storm,the stillness of the sea at dawn,when the clouds are heavy with secretsand the earth holds its breath,waiting for the light to break.It’s the curve of his lips,slow as rain on cobblestones,a story unfolding in the curveof a secret untold—whispered in the heart of every Irish wind.He’s the echo of the past,the ghost of all the landsthat stretch beyond the grey sky,where the hills sing songsolder than the silence between stars.His smile—like the first note of a fiddle’s song,raw and honest,like the crackling firethat keeps the dark at bay.It’s a blessing,a prayer woven into the rhythm of the world,a promise of something that’s never lost,no matter how far you roam—the warmth in the cold,the grace in the storm.It’s the knowing in his eyes,like the old trees standing tall in the field,rooted deep in the earth,bearing witness to every whispered prayerand every song of sorrowthat has been sung under the moon.He doesn’t need to speak,for his smile says everything—the world, the wars, the hunger,the love that never fades,the laughter that breaks the chainsof every pain that lingerslike the mist in the valley.An Irishman’s smile—it is a torch carried through the dark,a lantern to light the waywhen you’ve forgotten how to walk.It’s the hands of a thousand ancestorsholding you steady when the ground shifts.And when the clouds finally part,and the world catches its breath,his smile remains,like a song that never ends,like the land,like the sea,like the sky—forever smiling,forever home.