In New York smoke, the factories roar, Weavers marched, heels pounding the floor. March the eighth, nineteen-oh-seven, They shouted: “Enough! Give us heaven!” Empty pots in hand, they cried, Ten hours a day — no life, just died. Equal pay, a brighter dawn, Women’s fire was born that morn. March the eighth — it’s more than spring, Echo of steps from a fight we sing. Voices rose for rights and might, Clara Zetkin called: “Sisters, unite!” From Copenhagen to Russia’s snow, From strikes to flowers we now know — March the eighth marches on today, Remember, sister, the price they paid! Nineteen ten, a hall in Denmark rings, Hundred women — fire in their wings. Clara stood, her voice like steel: “Let this day be ours — for all to feel!” Not right away the date was set, But Russia in seventeen lit the net. February twenty-third by old count’s way — Women rose, and the old world gave way. March the eighth — it’s more than spring, Memory of those who fought everything. For equality, bread, for kids, for love, For strength to stand — and rise above. Nineteen twenty-one — the date was sealed, In red flags the holiday revealed. Then came flowers, gifts, and moms’ smiles… But deep inside, the same pulse beats still. March the eighth — it’s more than spring, A spark that lights the heart within. Thanks to every woman of that time, Who made the world a bit more kind… March the eighth… marches on… Remember, sister… where it’s from…
