The Poet of Smoke

In the ruins of postwar Venice, a man named Lorenzo wrote poems by burning incense instead of ink. The smoke curled into words — fleeting, beautiful, alive. People said his poems weren’t read; they were breathed.

One night, a widow begged him to write her dead husband’s name. The air turned black. The poem didn’t vanish — it lingered, forming a face that whispered her name.

Soon, others came, desperate to speak to the dead. Lorenzo wrote until his lungs failed. They buried him beside his last work — a poem made entirely of smoke.

To this day, when mist drifts over the canals, you can sometimes see letters in the air:

“We are what’s left unsaid.”