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St. Stephen’s green in the rain (Marcella Boccia)
St. Stephen’s green in the rain (Marcella Boccia)
The park sighs beneath the weight of grey,its trees trembling in the soft, steady weeping.Each drop a kiss from the sky,each leaf a prayer to the endless dusk.A woman passes, umbrella tilted,her coat a shadow stitched with regret.Her footsteps leave ripples on the path,like memories sinking slowly into the earth.The fountain, broken but still whispering,offers its water to the air,a gift to the ghosts who haunt the benches,waiting for something they’ll never name.I sit, hands wrapped around the warmth of a cup,watching the rain blur the world—a painting left unfinished,a face I once knew,a love that slipped through the cracks of silence.And St. Stephen’s Green,bathed in quiet sorrow,becomes the space between breaths,the pause before the end of a songno one remembers.
The park sighs beneath the weight of grey,its trees trembling in the soft, steady weeping.Each drop a kiss from the sky,each leaf a prayer to the endless dusk.A woman passes, umbrella tilted,her coat a shadow stitched with regret.Her footsteps leave ripples on the path,like memories sinking slowly into the earth.The fountain, broken but still whispering,offers its water to the air,a gift to the ghosts who haunt the benches,waiting for something they’ll never name.I sit, hands wrapped around the warmth of a cup,watching the rain blur the world—a painting left unfinished,a face I once knew,a love that slipped through the cracks of silence.And St. Stephen’s Green,bathed in quiet sorrow,becomes the space between breaths,the pause before the end of a songno one remembers.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIASt. Stephen’s green in the rain (Marcella Boccia)
The park sighs beneath the weight of grey,its trees trembling in the soft, steady weeping.Each drop a kiss from the sky,each leaf a prayer to the endless dusk.A woman passes, umbrella tilted,her coat a shadow stitched with regret.Her footsteps leave ripples on the path,like memories sinking slowly into the earth.The fountain, broken but still whispering,offers its water to the air,a gift to the ghosts who haunt the benches,waiting for something they’ll never name.I sit, hands wrapped around the warmth of a cup,watching the rain blur the world—a painting left unfinished,a face I once knew,a love that slipped through the cracks of silence.And St. Stephen’s Green,bathed in quiet sorrow,becomes the space between breaths,the pause before the end of a songno one remembers.
The park sighs beneath the weight of grey,its trees trembling in the soft, steady weeping.Each drop a kiss from the sky,each leaf a prayer to the endless dusk.A woman passes, umbrella tilted,her coat a shadow stitched with regret.Her footsteps leave ripples on the path,like memories sinking slowly into the earth.The fountain, broken but still whispering,offers its water to the air,a gift to the ghosts who haunt the benches,waiting for something they’ll never name.I sit, hands wrapped around the warmth of a cup,watching the rain blur the world—a painting left unfinished,a face I once knew,a love that slipped through the cracks of silence.And St. Stephen’s Green,bathed in quiet sorrow,becomes the space between breaths,the pause before the end of a songno one remembers.