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Liffey reflections (Marcella Boccia)
Liffey reflections (Marcella Boccia)
The river wears the city’s face,a trembling mask of light and shadow,gold spilling from bridges like old prayers,the hush of December pressed against the tide.Somewhere, a gull cries, thin as regret,its wings slicing the sky open—a wound of blue, slow to close.Dublin exhales in cigarette ghosts,its breath curling around lost names.I watch my own face break in the water,rippled, undone—a story the current refuses to keep.Here, even reflections let go.The river moves, careless, certain,carrying the weight of yesterday’s echoes,while I stand on its edge,learning the art of vanishing.
The river wears the city’s face,a trembling mask of light and shadow,gold spilling from bridges like old prayers,the hush of December pressed against the tide.Somewhere, a gull cries, thin as regret,its wings slicing the sky open—a wound of blue, slow to close.Dublin exhales in cigarette ghosts,its breath curling around lost names.I watch my own face break in the water,rippled, undone—a story the current refuses to keep.Here, even reflections let go.The river moves, careless, certain,carrying the weight of yesterday’s echoes,while I stand on its edge,learning the art of vanishing.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIALiffey reflections (Marcella Boccia)
The river wears the city’s face,a trembling mask of light and shadow,gold spilling from bridges like old prayers,the hush of December pressed against the tide.Somewhere, a gull cries, thin as regret,its wings slicing the sky open—a wound of blue, slow to close.Dublin exhales in cigarette ghosts,its breath curling around lost names.I watch my own face break in the water,rippled, undone—a story the current refuses to keep.Here, even reflections let go.The river moves, careless, certain,carrying the weight of yesterday’s echoes,while I stand on its edge,learning the art of vanishing.
The river wears the city’s face,a trembling mask of light and shadow,gold spilling from bridges like old prayers,the hush of December pressed against the tide.Somewhere, a gull cries, thin as regret,its wings slicing the sky open—a wound of blue, slow to close.Dublin exhales in cigarette ghosts,its breath curling around lost names.I watch my own face break in the water,rippled, undone—a story the current refuses to keep.Here, even reflections let go.The river moves, careless, certain,carrying the weight of yesterday’s echoes,while I stand on its edge,learning the art of vanishing.