White Walls and Shifting Faces : IMRAN ALI

White Walls and Shifting Faces

IMRAN ALI

A sterile room of shifting faces,

a crowded hall of lonely spaces.

No family near to hold my hand,

just the quiet company of strangers.

We sit on narrow beds and watch the clock,

listening to the heavy roll of gurneys,

each soul arriving with a fragile hope to mend,

each waiting for the day to bend.

The seasons change, and so do they.

Some pack their bags and walk away,

healed and smiling, breaking free

back to the lives they long to see.

But others leave on quiet beds,

with sheets pulled gently over their heads.

They do not walk, they do not cry;

they slip away into a final, long goodbye.

I watch the love that wakes the night—

the sleepless eyes fighting the pale fluorescent light,

the loyal kin who refuse to rest,

watching over slumbers deep.

Yet next to me, an old man sighs,

wishing for the dark since love has died.

"My wife is gone," he softly whispers,

"and no one cares if I am fed."

Outside these walls, the world complains—

of traffic, rain, and minor griefs.

But walk these heavy halls just once, and see

the true expense of being free.

For health is a wealth you cannot buy

beneath this artificial sky.

My heart wanders from these lines and monitors,

longing for the college and hostel halls,

where laughter echoes off familiar walls.

I pray to heal, to see them soon,

and walk beneath a different moon.

When these words find you, near or far,

hold life dear and cast out fear.

Thank the breath that lets you stay,

before the white walls chase the day.

(Imran Ali is a Ist year MBBS Student at GMC Handwara)