By Shem Onderi
Everything here is done under pressure.
Every step must go right, without mishap.
Quick decisions—sharp, precise—
the professional mind stays upright,
never carrying in the worries of home.
Here, everything must work.
A life hangs by a thinning thread,
and only the attendants know the way.
The patient is purely in their hands.
They sit, they stand, they pace,
ready for the next call, the next arrival.
This room is a fixer of lives,
its motto clear: nobody should die.
The walls are silent, yet too loud—
they cheer at every life restored.
The machines hum, superbly tuned,
built to perform, not to fail.
Spirits soar in that room:
a nurse stitching carefully,
a clinician steady under pressure,
a surgeon eager to mend what is torn.
In that room, God resides;
the heavens compose their hymns.
All voices in the choir of machines
silently jostle for the choirmaster’s ear.
This room knows no clock,
for every machine is already timed,
each one working in rhythm.
Here, patients never queue, never wait—
perhaps every room in the facility
should follow that model.
And yet, even the emergency room
could use flowers,
to smell bountiful.
Just a thought.