The ambulance driving with its bleeping siren
draws up below the portico of the hospital.
Its doors are thrown open; the patient is taken out
on a stretcher, rushed to the emergency ward.
Waiting doctors and nurses conduct urgent tests,
administer injections, drugs, shift him to the ICU,
maintain constant vigil to ensure that he is stable.
A commotion all around: he is a VIP!
Another patient who is poor, critically ill waits
in a rickshaw near the gate, while his relatives
stand in the queue before the registration counter.
When the turn comes, he is lifted to the outdoor,
then sent to the general ward, laid on the floor,
as no bed is vacant; his condition deteriorates;
an injection is pushed, but its date has expired.
The inevitable end comes to an ordinary mortal.
There is a hue and cry, sparking furious protests.
But the in-charge says: so what, if he has died?
People do die at the hospital, what’s the big deal?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Life and death is not in anyone's hand we all know and acknowledge yet when such things happen where one is given preference over other just because of power, position and money then we all feel bad about it and such things are very common....A thought provoking poem...10+