Within the chest, a sound is heard, Not quite the "lub-dub," clear and stirred. A gentle whoosh, a subtle sigh, The heart speaks softly as blood flows by.
A murmur rises, strange and low, Where streams of life more swiftly go, Through valves that open, valves that close, Yet some disturbance there now shows.
Innocent murmurs, harmless, kind, With no great troubles left behind. In children, fever, or in strain, They often fade and cause no pain.
Yet some might tell a deeper tale, Of valves too tight or weak, too frail. A whisper of a heart's defect, A warning sign to soon detect.
Stenosis, where the pathway narrows, Or valves that leak like gentle sparrows. A hole within, a muscle torn, An echo of a heart forlorn.
With stethoscope pressed firm to chest, The doctor listens, knows the test. Echograms and waves of light Reveal the cause, the hidden fight.
A murmur speaks, a voice so small, Yet in its depths, it tells us all. For some, it’s nothing—just a sound— For others, answers must be found.
