Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share Swan song in the docklands (Marcella Boccia)
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
Swan song in the docklands (Marcella Boccia)
Swan song in the docklands (Marcella Boccia)
The city hums beneath the weight of the evening,iron skeletons against a bruised sky,and the river, thick as forgotten grief,carries the last breath of daylight,a sigh slipping into shadow.The swan glides, silent,its wings cutting through the water,a ghost in the skin of the world,the pulse of its heart lost in the thrum of engines,the call of its song stolen by the steel of the docks.I watch as it moves,its body a question no one asks,its eyes filled with the things we leave behind,the things we never know how to mourn.And the water answers,ripples trembling like broken promises.The lights flicker, tired,casting halos that only the dead would recognize,and the swan, with a final beat of its wings,disappears into the night,a shadow swallowed whole by the dark.I am left here,on the edge of everything,where the river’s cold arms reach for the city,and I wonder—is this the end,or just another place we forget to leave?
The city hums beneath the weight of the evening,iron skeletons against a bruised sky,and the river, thick as forgotten grief,carries the last breath of daylight,a sigh slipping into shadow.The swan glides, silent,its wings cutting through the water,a ghost in the skin of the world,the pulse of its heart lost in the thrum of engines,the call of its song stolen by the steel of the docks.I watch as it moves,its body a question no one asks,its eyes filled with the things we leave behind,the things we never know how to mourn.And the water answers,ripples trembling like broken promises.The lights flicker, tired,casting halos that only the dead would recognize,and the swan, with a final beat of its wings,disappears into the night,a shadow swallowed whole by the dark.I am left here,on the edge of everything,where the river’s cold arms reach for the city,and I wonder—is this the end,or just another place we forget to leave?
View all episodes
By MARCELLA BOCCIASwan song in the docklands (Marcella Boccia)
The city hums beneath the weight of the evening,iron skeletons against a bruised sky,and the river, thick as forgotten grief,carries the last breath of daylight,a sigh slipping into shadow.The swan glides, silent,its wings cutting through the water,a ghost in the skin of the world,the pulse of its heart lost in the thrum of engines,the call of its song stolen by the steel of the docks.I watch as it moves,its body a question no one asks,its eyes filled with the things we leave behind,the things we never know how to mourn.And the water answers,ripples trembling like broken promises.The lights flicker, tired,casting halos that only the dead would recognize,and the swan, with a final beat of its wings,disappears into the night,a shadow swallowed whole by the dark.I am left here,on the edge of everything,where the river’s cold arms reach for the city,and I wonder—is this the end,or just another place we forget to leave?
The city hums beneath the weight of the evening,iron skeletons against a bruised sky,and the river, thick as forgotten grief,carries the last breath of daylight,a sigh slipping into shadow.The swan glides, silent,its wings cutting through the water,a ghost in the skin of the world,the pulse of its heart lost in the thrum of engines,the call of its song stolen by the steel of the docks.I watch as it moves,its body a question no one asks,its eyes filled with the things we leave behind,the things we never know how to mourn.And the water answers,ripples trembling like broken promises.The lights flicker, tired,casting halos that only the dead would recognize,and the swan, with a final beat of its wings,disappears into the night,a shadow swallowed whole by the dark.I am left here,on the edge of everything,where the river’s cold arms reach for the city,and I wonder—is this the end,or just another place we forget to leave?