An Ode to the Doctors
They, who are readily and always available;
Checking if your vital signs are stable.
They work round the clock with lives in their hands.
Carrying out nature's most delicate command.
They go into the surgical room without an iota of fear,
Bringing the much needed hope and chasing away despair.
The surgical robe, a garment light as a feather;
Worn by the doctors, heavy as a boulder.
ECG steadily beeping, ECH continuously whooshing,
They are intricately focused, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they are perspiring.
The nasal cannal steadily pumping oxygen into the patient’s nostrils,
Leaving no room for disaster and peril.
They're racing against time, or rather, in a race with the Grim Reaper;
One trying to harvest lives, the other trying to preserve.
They deserve their flowers, a kiss and a thumbs up,
For sticking with us and never giving up.
By;
Solace.
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