The floating home on Dhal Lake (Marcella Boccia)

I lived on a houseboat
a silent vessel drifting on the blue
of Dhal Lake
where the lotus flowers bloomed
like whispers of forgotten dreams
their petals open to the sky
as if waiting for the sun to remember
its warmth In the mornings I would rise
with the light still soft on the water
and take the shikara
a slender boat gliding through the mist
that clung to the lake like a secret
The air was cool
the fragrance of lotus mingling
with the earthy scent of wet wood
and the distant hum of the city I rowed through the mist
my oars cutting through the silence
of a world that felt suspended in time
The floating market awaited me
a place where life rose from the water
like the bloom of a thousand flowers
the vendors with their bright baskets
of vegetables and spices
the fish gleaming like silver scales
in the early morning light I would bargain with them
my words soft
but my hands quick
as I traded for fresh greens
and the flavours that would make a meal
from the heart of this land
The market was alive with colour
the yellow of turmeric
the red of ripe tomatoes,
the green of fresh coriander
and the rich earth-brown of potatoes
glistening in the cool air And as I rowed back
my boat now heavy with the bounty
of Dhal Lake
I would pass the lotus fields again
the flowers nodding as if in greeting
their stems like slender arms
reaching up from the water
to touch the sky There was peace in those moments
a fleeting peace
that hung between the lotus petals
and the whispers of the water
I lived in the heart of a lake
surrounded by beauty
but with the weight of a world
held just beyond the horizon
where the mountains stood
and the winds carried the stories of those
who fought for the land
for its freedom
for its soul But in the houseboat on Dhal Lake
amidst the lotus flowers
life was simple
and in that simplicity
I found a moment of grace
that would remain in my heart forever

The curfew on Dhal Lake (Marcella Boccia)

The curfew came like a shroud
quiet and heavy
laying itself over the lake
like a veil of silence
dimming the world outside
and keeping me within the narrow walls
of my houseboat
anchored to the water
anchored to a time
when the horizon seemed far
and yet was always too close
The lake usually so full of life
was empty in those hours
the shikaras stayed docked
the vendors quiet
and the sound of voices
was swallowed by the stillness
I would sit by the window
watching the soft ripples
of the water catching the fading light
the boat rocking gently
like the pulse of a living thing
Outside the blue kingfishers would dart
like flashes of fire against the green
their tiny bodies cutting through the air
as they skimmed the surface of the lake
in search of fish
their wings slicing the wind
with effortless grace
They were free
untouched by the weight
of the world beyond the water
and I envied them Above the eagles soared
their massive wings spread wide
against the sky
gliding with the ease of creatures
that knew the meaning of freedom
I watched them from the window
my eyes tracing their flight
as they circled above the mountains
soaring higher and higher
as if they too
had no care for the curfew
that held me prisoner in my own home
In those moments
when the world outside seemed to sleep
I found solace in the small things
the way the kingfishers perched
on the branches that reached over the water
the way the eagles would disappear
into the distant peaks
and then return like shadows
a reminder that the world still spun
even when it felt as though it had stopped
The curfew might have kept me locked inside
but the beauty of Dhal Lake
and its creatures
kept me alive in ways
that words could not capture
For in the stillness
when the world outside was muffled
I found the freedom
of watching the wings of a kingfisher
or the flight of an eagle
freedom that lived
even when the world around me was bound

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

In the shadows of war (Marcella Boccia)

In the dark of a war-torn night
We met
like stars in a sky of smoke
Your eyes
a fire I could not fight
A blaze that burned through the cloak of hope
You
from a land of ancient song
With a tongue that hummed of history’s grace
And I
a stranger to your world
so long
Lost in the chaos
searching for a trace
Our hands brushed
hesitant but bold
A touch that defied the world’s cruel fight
In your gaze
a love untold
A promise made in the quiet of night
We hid beneath the rubble
in the dust
Where soldiers’ boots echoed like death’s own tread
Yet in your arms
in the tempest
we found trust
A love that bloomed where others bled
The language of war was all around
But we spoke in whispers
in silent eyes
In your kiss
no borders could be found
Only the heart’s deepest
untold sighs
Your lips were fire
your soul a sea
And I
a traveler lost and bare
Fell into you
where love could be
A place untouched by the world’s despair
In the shadow of war
we made our own light
Two souls from worlds apart
But in that dark
forbidden night
We found love
fierce
defiant
and smart

The cry of the Women in Black (Marcella Boccia)

They wear the black
a veil that drapes over their grief
a shroud of sorrow that no eyes can pierce
no words can soothe
They stand in the streets
silent but for the cry that trembles in the air
a cry that carries through the valley
and echoes through the mountains
an inconsolable sound
that the world does not hear
Their husbands taken in the night
pulled from their beds by the hands of soldiers
dragged into the darkness
never to return
The doors they once passed through
now shut tight with a quiet cruelty
their homes emptied
by the violence of an occupation
that steals not only lives
but hope itself
The women
in their black burqas
are like shadows in the streets
their faces hidden
but their hearts laid bare for all to see
They cry for the husbands
who never came home
for the men whose bodies are lost to them
whose names are erased
by the bullets that tore through them
and the silence that swallowed
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their final breath
"Give us the body"
they cry
their voices cracking with grief
their eyes pleading for justice
that will never come
"Let us bury him
let us say goodbye"
But the soldiers
the ones who took them
who tore apart their families
refuse
They keep the bodies hidden
locked away in the cold earth
unseen
ungrieved
unremembered
The women are left to mourn
in the streets
in their homes
in the emptiness of their hearts
Each day they wait
their sorrow a wound that will never heal
And each day
the silence grows louder
the absence of their loved ones
a wound that time cannot touch
They are the women in black
the mothers of the disappeared
the wives of the fallen
Their cries rise like smoke
a bitter cloud over a land
that refuses to mourn with them
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And yet
they do not stop
they will not stop
They gather in the streets
with nothing but their sorrow
and a plea for a body they may never hold
Their voices
though hushed
are stronger than any gunshot
For even in their despair
they remember
they endure
and they carry the memory
of their lost husbands
the memory of the men
who will never return
And so
the women in black weep
a cry that will not fade
a cry that will haunt the land
until the day
when the truth of their pain
is heard by those who have the power
to return their men
to bring them home
so they can finally rest
beneath the soil of their land
where they belong

The road to Srinagar (Marcella Boccia)

Two days of dust and sun
the jeep rattled over roads of stone
past the cries of villages silent with fear
and mountains that whispered of wars
fought long before we arrived
the air thick with the scent of fire
and the hum of tires on fractured earth
I saw the long line of military trucks
a river of men and weapons
flowing like a dark tide
toward the valley where the lotus blooms
and the gunfire never sleeps
In the distance
the mountains stood like giants
their faces hidden in the mist
and I wondered
if they remembered the sound of peace
or if the echoes of war had long drowned it out
beneath the weight of blood and stone
The soldiers sat in their trucks
their faces unreadable as stone
their eyes dead as the land they tread
yet we moved forward
the only thing that still lived
was the road beneath our feet
a road carved through centuries of pain
We passed the fields where children once played
now still as graves
and I thought of the lives