The bench between the pages
- (📝Marcella Boccia) -
In the cold bite
of December air
we sat on the bench
a world laid bare
Between the Parliament’s stone
so gray
and Trinity’s halls
where memories stay
The library stood
silent and old
where Sinead’s voice
once sang so bold
Yeats whispered
in the dust and light
and we
rebels in the dark of night
We spoke of poets
of words that burn
of verses that twist
of hearts that yearn
Yeats
Wilde
and Pearse
all lost in time
their words etched in shadows
a rhythm
a rhyme
The cold ground beneath us
the world passed by
but in that moment
you and I
were the voices of the past
the ink-stained soul
burning with passion
out of control
We didn’t need
the books to read
for the poets lived
in the hearts that bleed
In that library’s silence
we found our voice
in the chaos of words
we made our choice
The bench
the night
the rain-soaked street
a rebel’s love
so raw
so sweet
And though the world
may turn away
we’ll speak of Yeats
in our own way