## The Loom's Requiem

The clatter still echoes in my bones. Not the rhythmic dance of progress they promised, but a jagged, metallic scream. Remember Peterloo? Sunlight turned crimson that day. Not sunset, but blood spilled on cobblestone for wanting… enough. I see their faces – fathers, brothers, sons - reaching, grasping for scraps while lords feast. The mill chimneys choked the sky, but what choked them was silence. The silence of empty bellies, of broken promises. The silence they broke with a roar, met with sabers. Justice wasn't blind that day. It was bleeding. And sometimes, late at night, I swear I can still smell the gunpowder and hear the loom weeping for the hands it crushed. What price progress, brothers?