The Gift Poem by Frank Halliwell

Young Bill was pretty typical of young folks of today
And life was lived at breakneck pace; no time to take it slow.
No matter whether right in town or on the broad highway,
His speed was always faster than the frenzied traffic flow!

He drove his car with little care, as young men often do..
With little thought, and scant concern for water on the road,
And lost control around a curve and skidded straight into
A large truck that was carrying a very heavy load.

'There is no hope! ', the surgeon said, ' and no more we can do!
His mind is gone, his time is up, and he has little left.
His body yet may live a while, his prospects now are few.
And even with full life support, of future he's bereft.

But I have something I must ask; it pains me to intrude,
But people all around the world have need of donor parts.
There is a need, and I must ask, although it may seem crude,
People are dying every day for lack of lungs and hearts.

So if you; in your time of grief, might spare a thought or two
For others who are sorely ill and living deep in strife,
You may find deep within yourself a charity that's true
To overcome your tragedy, and give the gift of life'.

With glowing lights, they wend their way along that last long mile
Between the files of stately trees and rows of polished stone.
The shiny cars are big and black, their drivers never smile,
And in the back; a woman weeps with head bowed, all alone...

The room is light and airy in the bright fluorescent glare,
In contrast to the grayness of the rain and fog outside...
A vague and distant scent of antiseptic in the air...
A nurse in white is hovering near the youthful patient's side.

A pretty girl of seventeen, she'd lived those years with strife
Melinda winced and waited for the chest pain to abate.
With weak heart from her early years; she'd barely tasted life,
With no transplant available, all she could do was wait!

The cortege moves at somber pace along the rainswept streets,
She fought the fight as best she could, but now at last she sleeps.
And though one held a winning hand, that hand was never played..
The gift was never given, the commitment never made...

She'll never be a blushing bride, another soul could not decide..
And all along that last long ride, another mother weeps...