Beneath the azure skies so bright,
A silent guardian bears the fight.
Its windows clear, its gaze serene,
Yet trouble stirs, unseen, between.
A yellow crest, a quiet foe,
On conjunctival plains may grow.
Sun’s embrace, so warm and wide,
Leaves subtle marks that time can’t hide.
Dust and wind, relentless pair,
Dance through the air, their trace laid bare.
Dryness whispers, frail and slight,
Its tender touch a nightly plight.
A middle-aged sentinel starts to tire,
Its pristine lens dimmed by fire.
Not of wrath, but wear and tear,
A pinguecula begins its lair.
Irritation’s ghost does haunt,
A foreign body seems to taunt.
Redness blooms, a fleeting flame,
A quiet lesion earns its name.
Yet hope endures within our grasp,
Through drops of comfort, bottles clasped.
Shields of shade block UV's glare,
A guardian's armor, light to spare.
When inflammation’s storm does rise,
Relief descends from soothing skies.
And should this burden grow too vast,
A surgeon’s hand might lift it fast.
Oh pinguecula, benign yet bold,
A tale of eyes and lives retold.
In every blink, the world we view,
This watchful orb still carries through.
