By JH Sayyar
When pain pierces the marrow of my bone,
And weary breath is shackled to each sigh,
A healer’s hand, though mortal, seems alone
To draw down mercy from the starlit sky
The sterile halls where silence holds its sway
Are softened by the balm of kindly speech,
As knowledge bends to kindness on the way—
A grace no book or scalpel yet can teach.
O guardian of the pulse and hidden ache,
Your mercy mends where medicine may fail.
Through night calls, for strangers kept awake,
You walk where shadows rise, yet do not pale.
Though science arms your mind, heart is key
For true mercy is the soul of agony’s plea.
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