Call me Markia Rossi

Not in Paris, not in London, but in Rome,
Where the wind erases traces,
On a hill, against the sunset,
Markia appeared from a glow

And when the sky turned crimson,
As if someone had spilled cinnabar,
She understood: all life is a fire,
But sunset is the golden secret of captivation

She chose her first and last name
Not from legend nor history, but from clan’s mystery
And from a sound louder than a gunshot,
From a scattering of emotions and a palace of memory

Sunset is like a scattering of medals sparkling
For trust, purpose, and new steps.
No one handed, no one seeking
But Markia paid all dues, passed all the traps

She walked across the cooled stones left by the volcanic explosion,
And behind her were the ruins of the path she had withdrawn
And the medals burned like signs on the dry ground
Life’ sternness make her iron

"Call me Markia Rossi." I awarded myself the medal.
Where wars and demands have absolutely ended,
And I know: I was born like phenix
I am made of will and fire