Chasing Ghosts in Sterile Halls
The antiseptic air hung heavy, a metallic tang,
No incense or jasmine, the prayers churches sang.
Fluorescent lights cast an eerie, cold glow,
On weary faces, where silent stories flow.
In a corner room, barely a woman, Priya lay pale and thin,
Her mother beside her, a rosary held within.
Each whispered bead, a desperate plea,
"Please, Mother Mary, let her just see eighteen."
Down the hall, a weathered man, his breath shallow and fast,
His wife clutched his hand, a lifetime held fast.
"Don't leave me, John," she rasped, voice thick with tears,
"We built a good life, for all these fifty years."
In another corner, a lone figure knelt,
Head bowed, a silent mantra his lips felt.
No priest's cadence, no holy book's decree,
Just a man facing mortality, a whisper, "Be free."
The doctor, a stoic in a starched white coat,
Moved from room to room, a practiced, weary note.
He'd seen it all, the prayers that rose in vain,
And the quiet victories, defying the pain.
"Another night, Mrs. Ramirez," he said with a sigh,
"Her body's fighting, but the infection runs high."
The mother's grip tightened, a rosary bead cracked,
A strangled sob escaped, a faith slightly attacked.
Mr. Jones squeezed his wife's hand, a weak smile on his face,
"I'm here, Mary," he whispered, leaving no space
For fear to creep in, "We'll face it together, you see,
Just like we always have, for you and for me."
The lone figure rose, his eyes filled with a plea,
"Take care of them, all of them," he murmured to the empty room, it would seem.
"They need a miracle, a touch of the divine,"
A silent plea to a God with no defined sign.
These sterile halls, a battlefield unseen,
Where faith battled science, on a razor-thin scene.
Churches and temples, their prayers may take flight,
But hospitals echoed with pleas in the dead of night.
For amidst the beeps and the whirring machines,
Hope flickered like a candle, a fragile scene.
And in that flickering light, a truth became clear,
The most fervent prayers whispered in human fear.
Amina, veiled, beside her husband, his cough a harsh song,
Whispered prayers in her native tongue, where she belonged.
Each word a shield against the encroaching night,
A desperate plea for his returning light.
Across the hall, a young man, Miguel, held his abuela's hand,
Her weathered skin, a map of a life well-planned.
He spoke to her softly, in the language of home,
Of childhood memories, a love that would never roam.
These weren't hymns or chants, but whispers raw and true,
A chorus of humanity, yearning to see it through.
Prayers for stolen moments, a chance to say goodbye,
A desperate bargain, beneath a sterile sky.
The hospital walls, a tapestry of pain,
Held echoes of hope, a relentless refrain.
For in this sterile haven, where life and death entwined,
The most sacred prayers were whispered, of a human kind.
