In the silence of dawn, a blade shines bright, The surgeon’s hands steady, ready for the fight. A sterile gown drapes, a mask drawn tight, The room breathes calm, bathed in sterile light.
Gloved hands reach out, instruments gleam, A dance with precision, like a well-oiled machine. The sterile field, a fortress built strong, Where no shadow of infection belongs.
A patient lies still, under watchful eyes, Trusting those hands as moments arise. The skin is prepped, cleansed with care, The air is filtered, pure and fair.
A whispered word, the scalpel’s edge, Cuts through flesh, as they cross the ledge. No room for error, no place for flaw, Aseptic technique, the surgeon’s law.
Each motion measured, deliberate, precise, Avoiding the cost of infection’s price. No sterile glove shall touch the unclean, No breach of the barrier will be seen.
Through each passing minute, tension grows thin, As focus narrows, and the work begins. Yet safety prevails, under every breath, Preventing the specter of infection’s death.
With careful stitching, the wound is sealed, The body begins to slowly heal. A victory claimed through skill and sight, A triumph forged in the sterile light.
