Divine (Marcella Boccia)
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Divine (Marcella Boccia)
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I was born from the mouth of Vesuvius,
baptized in fire and buried in ash,
where Pompeii’s lovers kiss through time,
calcified, untouched by mercy.I have walked where emperors bled,
where marble veins still pulse beneath my feet,
the Colosseum cracking like an old wound,
spilling ghosts into the hungry air.I have traced my fingers along Dante’s shadow,
his exile carved into my own soul—
for what is a poet if not a fallen angel,
a prophet too cursed to be believed?Italia, you are both altar and sacrifice,
the Sistine vault and the burning stake,
Leonardo’s perfect symmetry
and Caravaggio’s bruised saints,
a beauty too heavy to bear.Your churches whisper prayers
to a heaven long abandoned,
your waters rise to drown the sins
of men who trade faith for gold.And yet—I cannot unlove you,
cannot tear my veins from your soil,
cannot unhear the hymns of cicadas
or the weeping of olive trees.I am your child,
your ruin, your poet,
your divine.
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