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The cobblestone lament (Marcella Boccia)
The cobblestone lament (Marcella Boccia)
Night spills like stout on the streets of Dublin,thick, dark, foaming at the edges of song.The cobblestones hum with the weight of old feet,echoes of boots that marched and danced,that staggered home, hands full of ghosts.A fiddle wails from a Temple Bar corner,its cry threading through rain-heavy air,a needle stitching past to present,pulling grief tight into the seams of the night.Under the gaslight’s shiver, I watcha man trace his sorrow in cigarette smoke,his breath a prayer to no one,his pint half-full, half-forgotten.The Liffey murmurs something I almost understand,a lullaby for the lost, a dirge for the dreaming,and the city, drunk on memory,keeps singing anyway.
Night spills like stout on the streets of Dublin,thick, dark, foaming at the edges of song.The cobblestones hum with the weight of old feet,echoes of boots that marched and danced,that staggered home, hands full of ghosts.A fiddle wails from a Temple Bar corner,its cry threading through rain-heavy air,a needle stitching past to present,pulling grief tight into the seams of the night.Under the gaslight’s shiver, I watcha man trace his sorrow in cigarette smoke,his breath a prayer to no one,his pint half-full, half-forgotten.The Liffey murmurs something I almost understand,a lullaby for the lost, a dirge for the dreaming,and the city, drunk on memory,keeps singing anyway.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIAThe cobblestone lament (Marcella Boccia)
Night spills like stout on the streets of Dublin,thick, dark, foaming at the edges of song.The cobblestones hum with the weight of old feet,echoes of boots that marched and danced,that staggered home, hands full of ghosts.A fiddle wails from a Temple Bar corner,its cry threading through rain-heavy air,a needle stitching past to present,pulling grief tight into the seams of the night.Under the gaslight’s shiver, I watcha man trace his sorrow in cigarette smoke,his breath a prayer to no one,his pint half-full, half-forgotten.The Liffey murmurs something I almost understand,a lullaby for the lost, a dirge for the dreaming,and the city, drunk on memory,keeps singing anyway.
Night spills like stout on the streets of Dublin,thick, dark, foaming at the edges of song.The cobblestones hum with the weight of old feet,echoes of boots that marched and danced,that staggered home, hands full of ghosts.A fiddle wails from a Temple Bar corner,its cry threading through rain-heavy air,a needle stitching past to present,pulling grief tight into the seams of the night.Under the gaslight’s shiver, I watcha man trace his sorrow in cigarette smoke,his breath a prayer to no one,his pint half-full, half-forgotten.The Liffey murmurs something I almost understand,a lullaby for the lost, a dirge for the dreaming,and the city, drunk on memory,keeps singing anyway.