I've seen her quite often, she swiftly glides,
She appears at night, under her white cloth she hides.
The infirmary floors creak under her step,
Rooms of hundreds wailing, urgently, for her help.
She walks, in her hand, a glowing yellow light.
Like the halo of an angel, to save them from their plight.
Without complaint, she would swallow the griefs of another,
But no one to soothe her for the loss of her own mother.
The train of her cloth, trails behind her sweeping the floors delivering sanitation,
Cleans the wounds, the dirt, dusts away the agitation.
The wars were countless, and the death toll was shooting high,
Her solicitude was unwavering, no rest, she breathed no content sigh.
There are more Angels around, silently helping,
Tiny voices in a thunderstorm of bellowing.
When the pain and the infection spreads like the dark, I see,
She, the Lady of Mercy, pass through quietly, in this House of Misery.
- Aastha Mehta
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This is in memory of Florence Nightingale, and appreciation to all other social helpers.
YOU ARE READING
Slowly Drowning
PoetryFrom 2am thoughts, to 2pm reality, From being bullied by your own, to society's brutality. From the darkest corners of my mind, To the abused, unloved, brave and always kind. From the ones who have no home, To the ones who love being alone. From the...
