When the metal melts

The first thing that hits you is an orchestrated attack on all your senses. There is a shriek like a pressure cooker whistle. There is a sickening chemical smell. And there is the visual. The hot metal streaks past in a dancing fury of sparks. The sparks fly up in an ecstasy of self annihilation. Gothic looking equipments wait silently like a nightmarish science fiction film. Sand lies strewn amidst disfigured pieces of discarded metals. A tired plume of smoke wafts lazily in thin strips of sunlight. Iron is in making.