Blood’s scent—the smell
of uncanny, putrid air—
tyrannizes all space, across
his nose. He shivers. Hastened tones
along deathbeds roll.
Can I get my dad back?

Silence. Then come the zealous machines,
to keep all these cyborgs away
from their destiny, alive
without a soul.
Can they wake my dad up?

People come and go. Beyond
the glass of parting
they say “Hello,” “It will be fine.”
What a farce. Take off your masks.
No, it won’t be fine.

He rushes inside, where men
in death’s embrace, all mire their souls as one—
as a force against ultimate destiny.
He meets the grim reaper,
Blocking the doorway, bearing the words:
“You can’t take my dad away.”

At father’s side he stays—dad?
entangled in plastic pipes the man sleeps
but lacking the intimate soul. His eight-year-old hand
touches the old man’s palm and wishes
on a shooting star for father to come back.

And so blood swims back through
veins beneath fragile fingers
mustering all strength
to see his son again.
Father’s lips part:

Father is eternal.

Multi-million hospital vestibule and doctors’ clinics completed


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