Ghosts in my veins  (Marcella Boccia)

They move like whispers through my blood,
soft specters spun from loss and lore,
a fleeting chill, a crimson flood,
the echoes of what came before.
They hum in pulses, dark and deep,
old voices buried in my skin,
they stir in dreams, they wake in sleep,
they call me back, they pull me in.
No priest can bless, no fire can burn,
no love can hush their sad refrains—
for I was born, and I will turn
to dust with ghosts still in my veins.