First, the air stood still, heavy with despair,
Yet, as shadows gathered, hope sparked somewhere.
Then came the hands, precise and sure,
Meanwhile, whispers promised life’s allure.
While machines hummed with a soothing tone,
Soon, the body would claim breath as its own.
However, this journey, both fragile and stark,
Though clinical, also carried a luminous spark.
At first, a tool, cold as morning dew,
Thus, opened the door where oxygen flew.
Next, the tube, like a bridge of light,
Moreover, a guide through the darkest night.
Furthermore, the lungs, a forest of trees,
Because life requires their rhythmic pleas.
Although silent, their roots reached deep,
So breath could rise, no longer asleep.
Yet, as science worked its intricate art,
Meanwhile, emotions played their part.
Hence, the scene became surreal, profound,
For where sterility reigned, grace was found.
Consequently, the air became light and pure,
Moreover, the patient grew stable and sure.
Thus, breath reclaimed its rightful throne,
Since life depends on air alone.
Finally, the room exhaled as one,
Though the fight for life had just begun.
In the end, the clinical and mystical blend,
Because every breath is a story, without end.
