I make the rounds with the stethoscope in hand,
Gruesome hurts and broken hearts I try to mend.
Hope shinning through the ache in their eyes,
The suffering of the patients; the attendants’ sighs.
Listless on their beds, on the brink of death some lie
My best efforts may add to nothing: they may die.
A bullet in the chest or a wound by a knife,
I will tend to the victims of the strife
The lady in labour, her screams of pain echo in the hall,
But when the child first cries, she smiles and forgets it all.
Innocent children in the viscious grip of the crab,
They are never to see their prime: their faces so drab.
I am a wounded healer; always on the go,
The call of duty- forty eight hours at a row.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
i remember this. was the first person to read it, apart from the poet, i guess. and it won him an award for the 2nd prize in a north-east poem writing competition!!!
dat speaks for the quality. nothing more to add.
and yeah, i made a promise dat day and fulfilled it too.
thanx for all the compliments me mate...not that i need any more to further inflate me already inflated ego!!
Post a Comment