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The harp and the raven (Marcella Boccia)
The harp and the raven (Marcella Boccia)
The harp sleeps in the hollow of the wind,its strings bruised by the fingers of rain.Night leans in, hush-heavy,a priest at the door of a dying man.The raven watches from the bones of an oak,ink-feathered, bright-eyed,a spill of shadow against the hush of moonlight.It knows the shape of silence,the weight of an unsung note.Once, a song lived here,spun from breath and trembling hands,but the player is dust now,his voice a whisper lost in the bog.Still, the wind plucks at the strings,pulling ghosts from the belly of wood,and the raven, black prophet, listens—knowing that some songsare never meant to end.
The harp sleeps in the hollow of the wind,its strings bruised by the fingers of rain.Night leans in, hush-heavy,a priest at the door of a dying man.The raven watches from the bones of an oak,ink-feathered, bright-eyed,a spill of shadow against the hush of moonlight.It knows the shape of silence,the weight of an unsung note.Once, a song lived here,spun from breath and trembling hands,but the player is dust now,his voice a whisper lost in the bog.Still, the wind plucks at the strings,pulling ghosts from the belly of wood,and the raven, black prophet, listens—knowing that some songsare never meant to end.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIAThe harp and the raven (Marcella Boccia)
The harp sleeps in the hollow of the wind,its strings bruised by the fingers of rain.Night leans in, hush-heavy,a priest at the door of a dying man.The raven watches from the bones of an oak,ink-feathered, bright-eyed,a spill of shadow against the hush of moonlight.It knows the shape of silence,the weight of an unsung note.Once, a song lived here,spun from breath and trembling hands,but the player is dust now,his voice a whisper lost in the bog.Still, the wind plucks at the strings,pulling ghosts from the belly of wood,and the raven, black prophet, listens—knowing that some songsare never meant to end.
The harp sleeps in the hollow of the wind,its strings bruised by the fingers of rain.Night leans in, hush-heavy,a priest at the door of a dying man.The raven watches from the bones of an oak,ink-feathered, bright-eyed,a spill of shadow against the hush of moonlight.It knows the shape of silence,the weight of an unsung note.Once, a song lived here,spun from breath and trembling hands,but the player is dust now,his voice a whisper lost in the bog.Still, the wind plucks at the strings,pulling ghosts from the belly of wood,and the raven, black prophet, listens—knowing that some songsare never meant to end.