The factory of fire (Marcella Boccia)

I walked into the shadows of the factory
where the whispers of revolution were shaped
in the heat of a forge
where hands that once held dreams
now molded metal into weapons
The smell of oil and iron filled the air
heavy like the weight of years
pressed down on the hearts of men
who had learned to fight
not with words but with fire
The walls were lined with fragments of resistance
broken shells bent steel
tools of a war not chosen
but forged in the blood of those
who had no other way to speak
Here the revolutionaries of Kashmir
crafted their reply to the soldiers
who patrolled the valley
with rifles that seemed to have no end
their boots leaving footprints in the earth
of a land already worn thin by violence
I watched as the young men worked
their faces set with the kind of quiet determination
that only comes from living with the fire
of rebellion burning inside
They bent over their work
their hands steady
but their eyes
their eyes held the story of a land
that had known nothing but suffering In the corner an old man
whose hands trembled with age and loss
held a piece of metal
shaping it into something lethal
When he saw me watching
he didn’t speak
but I knew what he was thinking
that in the world of oppression
the gun was the only voice
that the world would listen to
And yet amidst the clamour of metal and smoke
I saw the hope in their eyes
the belief that one day
this factory would be a relic of a past
where weapons were needed
to defend the freedom
that had been stolen
But until that day came
they would work
and they would fight
with the fire that burned in their hearts
And I the poet
stood in the shadows of the factory
watching the hands of revolutionaries
shape the very tools of their resistance
knowing that their fire
their struggle
would one day light the world