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No golden thrones await us here,
No hymns are sung as dawn appears—
Just aching feet and bloodshot eyes,
And pages read beneath dim skies.
.
We are not gods, nor saints, nor kings,
But we are forged in holy things:
The scream, the gasp, the final breath,
The whispered prayer that bargains death.
.
We go where even gods won't tread,
We tend the wounds that Heaven fled.
We save the lives that fate declined,
The lost, the damned, the left-behind.
.
We do not flinch, we do not run,
Our work is never truly done.
The hours stretch, the stories blur,
But still we show, still we confer. We burn through youth in sterile halls,
We memorize the rise, the falls—
Of pressure, pulse, and clotting time,
Of twisted flesh and failing spine.
.
And every year, we learn anew,
Because disease keeps changing too.
No finish line, no laureled rest—
Just endless quests to do our best.
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We do not ask for praise or fame,
Most never even learn our names.
But in our hands, the dying live—
And we give more than gods would give.
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So speak no myth, and bow no head—
We’re here for those not meant to tread.
We stand when miracles won’t come—
And fight for breath when breath is done.
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No gods are here—just grit and grace,
And hands that touch the furthest place.
And when the sky kings forget to care,
You'll find us working—the brunt to bear...
