In the realm of tiny threads and veins, Where every movement, delicate, remains, The surgeon’s hand, with careful grace, Rebuilds what time or fate displaced.
Beneath the lens, so finely tuned, In silence, where the nerves are hewn, They mend the broken, stitch the torn, And bring the light where dark was born.
With plastic craft, they weave anew, A severed limb, a life in view. In brains they tread, where thoughts reside, To clear the paths where tumors hide.
In eyes, they dance, with vision's light, Restoring sight to darkest night. Within the ear, the whispers flow, They guide the sound where it should go.
In bones and flesh, with skill so grand, They heal with touch, a steady hand. Each move precise, no space to err, In microsurgery's tender care.
A world unseen, where healing sings, Of tiny threads and gentle wings, A surgeon's craft, both bold and small, In these small acts, they mend us all.
