You bring them on a four wheel cart,
Hoping that they would get a little better.
What you know is, you would get the treatment,
What you don't know is, how you will be treated.
The value of life is brought down to it's lowest possible significance,
With the name getting denoted and quoted as "body".
Still you come, bring some, your daughter, your wife, your father and mother, in the hope that they will get a little better.
You know the place is filthy, stinky, covered with blood and mud, mosquitoes, flies and night bugs.
You know the place is new, unkown, where you know few or rather nobody.
But you also know, you can't complain, not notify, can't fight, can't prove yourself right.
You go to a restaurant and you ask for a tissue to clean your fingers, but here is a place, where you can't ask for cloth to clean the blood.
You are naive, you are in apprehension, as what would, how could, it couldn't, it wouldn't, have had, has had, happened.
But before you really bare with the diagnosis, progression, treatment and prognosis,
You have to fight for the place that is clean,
You have to fight for the place that is disinfected,
You have to fight for the place that will treat you right, along with the treatment.
You have to fight for the place that will show you respect before and after the death.
And do you know what, you never really can, not really in government hospitals,
And do you know why,
Because, it's free, as they think,
Because, you don't pay for it, as they think,
Because, you have come in middle of night, and you are disturbing someone's sleep.
Because, the "cause" which you have brought in, is much more created by "yourselves".
What an irony it is, What a pun it has created.
The real demons are not the white coats and colors with the stethoscopes,
But rather the white coats and colors without it.