Clockwork Breaths
Sitting in a corner of a hospital,
Reading the weather of faces,
An invisible line divides the people:
One still holds a trace of courage,
Others’ eyes are filled with misery.
Moving toward the haunted silence of ICU
Of an illustrious military hospital,
Amid all the luxurious equipment,
There is a doomsday silence.
Somewhere, a dreadful sound is heard—
Pumping oxygen into an unconscious man;
Its sound—like a ticking clock,
Measuring the time left
Till the end of a world.
In the wards, too, a distinction lies:
Some eyes glitter with fragile hope,
Some, in despair and sickness, grow dim.
It is harsh to breathe
In that mourning environment.
Why are we born,
If the end is this cruel?
Miseries, atrocities, afflictions—
Even here, between breath and silence.
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