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  • The floating home on Dhal Lake (Marcella Boccia)

    The floating home on Dhal Lake (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 3 2025
    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
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    4 Min.
  • The curfew on Dhal Lake (Marcella Boccia)

    The curfew on Dhal Lake (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 2 2025
    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
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    4 Min.
  • The factory of fire (Marcella Boccia)

    The factory of fire (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 2 2025
    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
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    3 Min.
  • In the shadows of war (Marcella Boccia)

    In the shadows of war (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 2 2025
    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
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    3 Min.
  • The cry of the Women in Black (Marcella Boccia)

    The cry of the Women in Black (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 2 2025
    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
    111
    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
    112
    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
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    4 Min.
  • The road to Srinagar (Marcella Boccia)

    The road to Srinagar (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 2 2025
    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
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    2 Min.