A voice
not made,
but born-
from the lungs of Naples,
from the ache of longing
too large for words.

He sang
as if sound
had shape,
as if sorrow
could be lifted
into gold.

The aria was not performance-
it was confession,
wrapped in velvet,
delivered to silence
like an offering.

He did not reach
for notes-
they arrived,
as if remembering
where they came from.

Every breath he gave
was a bridge-
between the old world and the new,
between the stage
and the heart
that listened.

Fame followed,
but it was the echo
that remained.