Marcella Boccia

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The day will come when, after harnessing space, the winds, the tides, and gravitation, we shall harness for God the energies of love. And on that day, for the second time in the history of the world, we shall have discovered fire.
Pierre Teilhard De Chardin
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Marcella Boccia (Baia e Latina, Italy, 1974) is an Italian pacifist poet.


  • From Nothing in my pocket

Nothing in my pocket / only the ticket of the mistaken bus / one chewed pen and a paper sheet/ and nothing more

  • From The Peace Pipe

Don't worry, Mam, don't worry / no problem in my Country / no problem in my house

  • From The Roof of the world

The people of this land love peace / The people of this land love freedom / The people of this land love freedom / love freedom

  • From Women in black

We are here in Hush protesting / because Hush ago the still more noise / rips the walls of indifference / opens the ears of who does not want to feel /And Stop! with the wars / and Stop! with the hypocrisies / and Stop! because of suffering of it we have had too many / Women in black women sol a thought / we are Women in black / Sisters in Hush and the peace / We are women / we are women in black

  • The roof of the world

India is a holy land
but not the land in which I was born.

I made a friendship circle with my sisters
and the red clubs broke our hands apart.
Flowers and snow were falling from the sky
I was only thirteen years old.
When The roof of the world fell on our heads
with the red sun blinding our eyes.

For years I have borne beatings in this prison called Drapchi.
These years of jail that will be never ending,
they punish me because I became a nun at thirteen years
Years of jail that will never end, to punish me, for becoming a nun at thirteen

They force us to put on their Cultural clothes
They rape us and kill any unborn inside
I have no windows in my cell,
in this dark cell with iron bars
I am fed bad and rotten food unfit for any human
I pray to God that he lets me see the daylight again
I am twenty-seven but I feel so old.
I remember my land, the land of the snows
the green pastures and the smiling children
my sweet and white white heaven
where one day I hope I will go back to walk
and my sisters will be able to re-embrace each other

I'm locked in a jail, but have no regrets
although my lovely land has not been sold
it has been stolen
that is why we have cried so many many tears,
many many tears

The deep blue lakes still live
And I see the glimmer of eternal hope
In the direction of our motherland
we're singing this short song of truth
The wind will carry it to Lhasa
so the time will not be too sad for us.

The people of this land love peace
the people of this land love freedom
the people of this land love freedom
love freedom


  • Knight in shining armour

Oh knight in shining armour
lover across the cosmic ether
your eyes tell me
about your story
it is also my story
Perhaps three or four trees
brought from Iran
are the custodians of the place
where our souls
at the end of the summer
A timid leaf
that autumn has made yellow
slowly falls down
on the calm surface of the lake
and the sound of impact
cut my heart
in two bleeding pieces
which only asks
love and freedom
love and freedom
love and compassion
Oh knight in shining armour
collect the timid leaf
that autumn has made yellow
and give it to me as a present
bringing together
the two pieces of my heart

  • From Autobiography

With the wings to the feet / I flight from city to city / dragging my Tespi's wagon / and enacting the commedia of my life

  • From Cursed private property

The water is not a goods / the water is I / are you / is the child / that your mother has had in the belly / is the food that has nourished / he's cells / is one hundred thousand free dragonflies / to balance in the air / cannot capture them / is a crime to privatize them

  • From Çdo femër është nuse (albanian language)

Bredhin Qeniet në këtë Tokë / copa unike të mozaikut kosmik / si çorape të lëna tek / që kurrë më s’do të mund t’i mbathi / Shtyjnë karroca e këmbë të lodhura / marshojnë dhe pedalojnë me të rëna mantre


Kashmir: Welcome to Paradise

The birds by the lake seem to be painted by the hand of a child. Some seem to have fallen in pastel colored paint. The eagles draw soft geometric shapes in the clear sky. The clouds frame softly the rolling hills that surround lake Dal. Arriving at Srinagar, a big sign greets the guests with "Welcome to Paradise". When I first read it, it irrited me. It seemed a contraddiction placed on the heads of thousands of soldiers and armored cars. Only after, I understood the meaning of it. I would modify the sign by adding a statement: "Proceed to lake Dal, rent a houseboat, forget for an instant the green of the militia and you'll be welcomed to Paradise". The sign wasn't wrong, just incomplete. The sun rays are reflected on the Dal's mirror. Each splits into hundreds of new sparkles. Looking at the eagles glide, for hours on hand, my face and forearms have become the colour of chai: black tea with milk and sugar.

Srinagar, 27 july 2008

Sixth day of corfew. I have neither internet nor phone. I read, for the second time, all the books in the small library of my houseboat. I cut the split-ends from my hair. Some I rip out with my nails, staring at them with a canine challenge. I counted the lotus flowers in the lake. I lost count and I started again. I washed again my small wardrobe. I ran out the batteries of my MP3. I counted the eagles in the sky. I counted the clouds. I know exactly how many times Nabi says: "Thank you". How many times he smooths his white beard. And how many times Salman eats an apple, or, bored, opens the fridge, where for many days now, there is only water. I know how many times Ayub looks at me, shy, secretive, with his big blue eyes. And how many times moves his black mustache to smile at me, blushing. We played cards and despte the fact that Koran forbids it, he won my house in italy, and I won his house in Srinagar. We exchange them back again. I waited for the blue bird. Around here they call it "kingfisher". For hours, I waited for it to land on the acquatic plants next to the houseboat. After plunging in the lake, it flew away. So I waited for another one. And another yet. I looked at the moon grow, inch by inch, every night, on the floating veranda. Tonight it's a full moon and it shines on the lake, flooding it with soft light. Meanwhile, from every Mosque nearby, the singing of the worshippers reaches me. This is the night when they ask God to write their wishes in the book of life. For hours on hand, I have been asking myself, what would I want that a God should write in the book of my existence. I really don't know. I ask Salman, who is a Muslim but not too devout, that is why he stayed home watching TV. He tells me that he will ask his God to provide a Swiss bank account for him. And I? My only thoughts go to my family. So I ask my Muslim friends, who are certain that Allah will listen, to pray for my loved ones.

(from "Azadi, diario dal Kashmir", Marcella Boccia - translation by Giuseppina Croce)

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