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The man with red beard (Marcella Boccia)
The man with red beard (Marcella Boccia)
He stands at the edge of the world,coat heavy with the scent of salt and sorrow,his beard a flame against the drowning dusk,his eyes, two coins for the ferryman.The sea knows his name—spits it back in broken Gaelic,a curse, a prayer, a half-lost songthreaded through the teeth of the wind.Once, there was love,warm as whiskey in a cracked glass,but love is a thing that drifts,a gull swallowed by the tide.He lights a cigarette with hands like winter,the ember trembling, a tiny sun—and in that flicker, I see it all:the years, the ghosts, the last goodbyefolded into the lines of his palm.The night swallows him whole.Only the ash remains.
He stands at the edge of the world,coat heavy with the scent of salt and sorrow,his beard a flame against the drowning dusk,his eyes, two coins for the ferryman.The sea knows his name—spits it back in broken Gaelic,a curse, a prayer, a half-lost songthreaded through the teeth of the wind.Once, there was love,warm as whiskey in a cracked glass,but love is a thing that drifts,a gull swallowed by the tide.He lights a cigarette with hands like winter,the ember trembling, a tiny sun—and in that flicker, I see it all:the years, the ghosts, the last goodbyefolded into the lines of his palm.The night swallows him whole.Only the ash remains.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIAThe man with red beard (Marcella Boccia)
He stands at the edge of the world,coat heavy with the scent of salt and sorrow,his beard a flame against the drowning dusk,his eyes, two coins for the ferryman.The sea knows his name—spits it back in broken Gaelic,a curse, a prayer, a half-lost songthreaded through the teeth of the wind.Once, there was love,warm as whiskey in a cracked glass,but love is a thing that drifts,a gull swallowed by the tide.He lights a cigarette with hands like winter,the ember trembling, a tiny sun—and in that flicker, I see it all:the years, the ghosts, the last goodbyefolded into the lines of his palm.The night swallows him whole.Only the ash remains.
He stands at the edge of the world,coat heavy with the scent of salt and sorrow,his beard a flame against the drowning dusk,his eyes, two coins for the ferryman.The sea knows his name—spits it back in broken Gaelic,a curse, a prayer, a half-lost songthreaded through the teeth of the wind.Once, there was love,warm as whiskey in a cracked glass,but love is a thing that drifts,a gull swallowed by the tide.He lights a cigarette with hands like winter,the ember trembling, a tiny sun—and in that flicker, I see it all:the years, the ghosts, the last goodbyefolded into the lines of his palm.The night swallows him whole.Only the ash remains.