Rhythms of the Heart: A Collection of Poems
World over, March 21st is celebrated as World Poetry Day to recognise the power of words and the profound impact poetry can have on one’s emotions.
The IAPC embraces this art form through its special publication, ‘Rhythms of the Heart: A Collection of Poems’ a heartfelt collection of poems penned by poets—both aspiring and established—from diverse backgrounds, including students, journalists, caregivers, volunteers, doctors, nurses, and more.
This collection of 54 poems captures and offers an intimate glimpse into the deeply personal journeys of those facing the end of life, the healthcare workers who care for them, and the caregivers who stand beside them. Through these verses, we explore the intricate tapestry of emotions—love, compassion, fear, loss, resilience, hope, and the complexities that come with navigating life-limiting illnesses. The collection therefore serves as a poignant reminder that palliative care extends beyond medicine; it is seen in holding space, being compassionate, and in the quiet language of love in life’s most delicate moments.
This year’s publication also stands as a growing testament to the increasing recognition and acceptance of palliative care within the community. We are deeply humbled by the overwhelming response to the IAPC’s call for submissions, with contributions pouring in not just from across India but from also beyond such as from Canada, the UK, and Poland.
Through this initiative, we at the IAPC, hope that these poems serve as a source of solace and understanding, and a gentle companion for all who walk this path—because even in life’s most uncertain moments, there is poetry.
(Poems published in alphabetical order of the poet’s name)
Disclaimer: Poems have been published as submitted. No edits were made by the IAPC.
Note: The exclusive rights over the poems belong to their poets.
A
Suffering, as Dame Cicely once shared,
Is only when there’s no one there,
To hold the hand, to soothe the soul,
To make them feel,
They still are whole
Each and every living body
Holds a breath divine,
A spirit within & a love that’s intertwined,
And while they breathe they matter true
In every moment, remember
They are just like you
I am reminded of a young soul
from the hospice
That once spoke with grace and might,
To guide her child through dark to light,
To thank, to love, to set them free,
To live their lives, though she must leave.
You see,
In every breath there’s a legacy,
In every word, an eternity,
For how we leave, as Cicely said,
Will remain with those who mourn the dead.
For it’s not the years but life therein,
The moments shared, the love within,
What’s left behind, like a tender trace,
Is in many hearts, a sacred space.
So tell them again and again
“You matter always, every single day
From life’s first breath to final sway.
So we’ll do our best to help you find,
Peace in the heart, and peace of mind.”
Let’s come together,
Let’s be the Pallium’s glow!
Have caring hearts where kindness flow,
With A tender touch, and a steadfast will
To let them know, That They matter still.
About the poet:
Dr. Aby John Thampi is a first year Junior Resident, Department of Palliative Medicine, at the Christian Medical College, Vellore, Tamil Nadu.
Wishing it was just a dream
Until the fair aunty with spectacles
Spoke to me in a familiar voice
She was that ray of light.
Suddenly, in the dark grey sky
A tiny silver line, I could spot
Just above where I was operated upon
She poured her tender love.
I called out to the aunty with all my voice
Which just wouldn’t come today
After my first dose of that medicine
She sang and played the banjo – for ME.
One by one, I lost all I once had,
My own body was not mine anymore,
My friends and family without a trace,
SHE hugged me tight, before that last shot.
About the poet:
Dr. Amoolya Kamalnath is an Associate Professor at the Pondicherry Institute of Medical Sciences. Dr. Kamalnath is a passionate mother, an Anaesthesiologist and a lover of haiku.
It was her healthy 50s
A colourful and happy flavoured life
Caught by a crab
Left her suffocated
Gifted her pain and aches
Strained toilet times
The war was tough
Every morning, looking in the mirror
Was fearful
Even the mirror teased her,
Calling her a yellow bulb
Icteric eyes and body stole her beauty
Onco veranthas echoed
My days are countable.
Morphine, cremaffin, fentanyl patches
Took the place of bindis, lipsticks, powder,
Colours faded, flavours gone
Faces filled with sympathy
Yet in between
She found few empathetic faces
In onco veranthas
She overheard someone say
“It’s okay you have eaten this much”
That made her a little happy
She asked her doubt
“Am I a yellow bulb?”
Again, she asked,
“Am I a yellow bulb?”
Once more looking into the mirror
She whispered
“Am I… a yellow bulb?”
About the poet:
Dr. Angelin Johny T. is a second year Post Graduate Resident (Palliative Medicine) at St. John’s Medical College, Bengaluru.
I woke up in the morning
Everything was bright and shining
Marching ahead was my dream
Achieving was my habit
Till one day of anguish
I was diagnosed with cancer
I realised that day
I have lost the battle
The ladder felt
The destiny twisted
I cursed my God
I cursed my destiny
I stopped,
I could not move on
I cried
Tears rolled down
I gave up
I thought I have no time left
Its all over
Nothing is left
But families stood strong
Giving support and care all along
I limped
I fell down
But again, I stood up
I realised,
Days are still bright
Sun is still shining
Then, why do I live in dark
I am a small flower of a tree
I have the right to smile and be free
Night of pain and agony will go by
And a new beginning of hope will arrive
Death is inevitable
It will come one day to all of us
Short life can be sweet
Dreams can be met
Let me stand and say
I am not weak
I am a fighter
Whatever goes wrong
I will fight till end…
And I will fight till end…
See, I have stood up once again
I will not let myself stand behind the darkness
God, I am your child
I am still your seed
See, my fighting spirit
My dying spirit
I am the winner
Winning the battle of death
About the poet:
Dr. Anuradha Patel is an Assistant Professor Anaesthesia, at the DSCI.
A poet I was,
my style free verse,
begging for freedom,
chained by answers so terse
Everyday it seems I’m
Sinking from bad to worse
My eyes are closed, my spirit crushed, little by little I disburse:
my joy, my spirit, my being
Sold in return for a machine that puffs and beeps and plays where the rules of the game befuddle me,
“The kiss of breath I will give you forever, just breathe with me and never say never”
“What is forever, my dear machine?” I seem to ask with my tears and a shiver.
“So long as your sons feed me with green, you will be kept here, until the numbers on the screen
speak softly with sheen”
I shudder and swallow my anguish, when I hear “We love you dad”
“Is that a password to a lonely death?
Then please take me home” I plead
“Trust me and the machine to breathe, a good ICU is what you need”
“Visiting hour over” the nurse chimes
“Alone once more” I sigh
My friend, the ventilator hears me and gives me another consoling kiss of breath.
“Beep beep beep”
One more song of the monitor.
One more silent stare from me.
Chained inside immortal numbers
I sink into one more very long endless day…
About the poet:
Dr. Asha Deshmukh is an Intensivist at the Nine Pearls Hospital, Nasik. She is an intensive care physician who endeavours to integrate the principles of palliative care in her everyday patient care in the ICU. She believes that palliative care awareness is the need of the hour for the entire community, to make informed patient centric decisions. Dr. Deshmukh is also a published author who likes to write short stories and poetry.
B
In a healing space, where hope wears thin,
A man faced news that tore from within.
Cancer had claimed a place in his chest,
Yet he clung to hope, gave life his best.
He wept for his kids, still small and bright,
For their futures, he feared, in the dead of night.
But by his side stood family and friends,
Their love his shield, their strength, his lens.
Through pain so fierce, his cries would soar,
Echoing through halls, from floor to floor.
He left that place with trembling hands,
To face his fate and make his plans.
Six months passed, and he returned anew,
With a smile, a calm, a courage true.
Though cancer remained, he stood with pride,
Knowing his loved ones were by his side.
His father-in-law travelled long and far,
An eight-hour journey, his guiding star.
Though they offered much, no bribe could sway,
With gratitude shared in a heartfelt way.
Two pillars of hope lent their grace,
Ensuring bills were paid, without a trace.
The family stretched to save his life,
In a world of struggle, toil, and strife.
The day arrived when pain would cease,
And he’d find his final, lasting peace.
Though weak and frail, his heart was strong,
In spirit, his fight still carried on.
They laid him to rest with love so deep,
With courage enough to help them keep
The hope alive for brighter rays,
In resilience found, their strength ablaze.
So here’s to the ones who bear the weight,
Who stand with love when faced with fate.
In every tale of hardship told,
Lives the spirit of hearts so bold.
About the poet:
Ms. B. Aiswarya is the Project Coordinator at St. John’s Medical College Hospital, Bengaluru. She is a dedicated project coordinator in Palliative Medicine at St. John’s, weaving compassion into care, inspired by patient stories and the strength of family bonds.
They entered, bound in savage chains;
Weary souls from a world of pain.
The agony, feral; its echoes cut deep,
Each breath, shallow; the prognosis-bleak.
In quiet rooms, they lay and weighted;
Devastated, dejected and defeated.
Yet, with painted smiles they masked the ache;
For loved ones’ hearts mustn’t break.
Then hands of mercy, like morning’s first light,
Bore their weight and eased their fight.
No more hurried steps, no more wars to wage,
Their stories continued on a softer page.
Paint turned into peace and dread withdrew,
Life now unfolded in softer hues.
As their weary eyes closed at last,
Fear slipped away – the storm had passed.
About the poet:
Ms. Bincy Sara Thomas is a former teacher who tries to discover the profound in the ordinary, weaving simple moments into poetry that resonates from her heart.
C
I recall the day she walked in pain,
A soul worn down, a body frail in vain.
Cancer’s cruel grasp had taken its toll,
Leaving her weak, with a heart that grew cold.
As her doctor, I’d seen it all before,
But something in her eyes made me pause once more.
I knew that curing was no longer the goal,
But caring, comforting, and soothing her soul.
We introduced palliative care, a holistic way,
To ease her suffering, come what may.
A team of angels, with hearts full of gold,
Surrounded her with love, compassion to unfold.
With every visit, I saw her spirit revive,
A spark in her eyes, a heart that began to thrive.
She shared her fears, her dreams, her story too,
And we listened, empathizing, as we saw her through.
Palliative care brought hope to her darkest night,
A sense of control, a feeling that everything’s alright.
It reminded her that life’s worth living, no matter the test,
That care, compassion, and love can heal the deepest unrest.
As I look back, I realize that she taught me too,
The value of empathy, the power of love shining through.
Palliative care’s not just a service, it’s a sacred art,
A testament to humanity, a loving heart.
About the poet:
Dr. Charu Dutt Arora is a Consultant and Head – Home Care, Geriatrics & Palliative Care, AmeriHealth Home Health Care – Asian Institute of Medical Sciences. Dr. Arora is a multifaceted healthcare worker who seamlessly weaves together her passions as a doctor, researcher, entertainer, and advocate for geriatric care, with a dash of entrepreneurial spirit, to create a profound impact on the lives of others.
H
Everything seems a little gray.
Whatever you have will be gone someday.
You will make memories,
You will make friends,
But what’s really left at the end?
Too much noise and mess inside.
Trembling and shaking hands,
Struggling to take a breath.
Lost, kinda terrified,
Numb at times,
Then sometimes too emotional.
It’s a turmoil,
A rollercoaster ride.
Trembling and shaking hands,
Struggling to take a breath.
It feels heavy, doesn’t it?
Wanna give life another try?
Nah, I’m done.
Don’t wanna pick any more fights—
Maybe that’s my fate.
Why ask for another chance?
It’s been a crazy ride.
Let’s halt it and be free
From the chaos and fears, whatever they may be.
Maybe in stillness, I’ll find my peace.
Let life be short, but real.
Unchain, and step off,
Lose yourself, and be gone.
About the poet:
Dr. Harshit Sharma is a Junior Resident at AIIMS Bathinda, with a heart for healing, finding solace in words and the unspoken emotions of patient care.
It’s your birthday…eighteen years ago, from us, you parted–
till the end you were lion-hearted!
With the void, we moved on after that tragic day
Our minds and hearts, for long, were misty and grey.
You refused hospice and palliative care
Instead, you chose your favourite armchair
listening to the stories Mark read aloud
At times, Sangeetha or Dad would.
You were barely eighteen —
The deadly monster stepped in stealthily
The ‘ravenous wolf’ made you bare-chested.
You emerged victorious, with no remission
You devoted your life to the
special needs children…
You were their companion, their mother, and more!
Mark entered your life – friendship blossomed into love,
assuring support, Mark said: ‘I do!’
A simple temple wedding, then onwards to Australia,
family and friends were happy whenever you called.
We only thought you were coming on holiday,
Shattered– reemergence as a Stage IV?
Mark, your devoted partner came along too.
We witnessed your endless trauma and agony
You refused to go in for further treatment
even though the world-renowned Cancer Institute
was in the neighbourhood.
Morphine! Just morphine….
It was unbearable for us to see you suffer
Despite the torture, you managed to smile,
Not letting us shed a tear!
I cooked your favourite veggies and dhal
Barely a spoon went in, every morsel made you puke…
Breathless, unconscious, you’d open your eyes feebly.
That fateful night, we thought you’d come out….
Without a goodbye, you went off.
Wherever you are, dear Vani,
please know, we loved you loads, and still love you…
About the poet:
Ms. Hema Ravi is a Personal Tutor and English Language Trainer. She believes that stories of courage and resilience are all around us, and that they help us become better human beings. The above narrative is about the exemplary life of Vani, a neighbour to me and a sister to Sangeetha.
J
A Gentle touch, a caring heart,
Comforting those who play their part,
In the journey, where pain and fear,
May accompany those who draw near.
Palliative care, a compassionate guide,
Supports the patient, side by side,
Managing symptoms easing pain,
Improving quality, until the refrain.
Respect, dignity and empathy entwined,
Holistic care for body, mind and soul aligned,
Family support, education and care,
A comprehensive approach, beyond compare.
Life value, cherished, every single day,
Palliative Care, shows the way,
To live with purpose, love and peace,
Until life’s journey, finds release.
About the poet:
Ms. Jamana Tanusha is a second year student pursing her Nursing at GIMSR Hospital under GITAM deemed to be university.
He shook my hand
He looked at me
I felt a silent love
emerging from a river of touch
He shares his heart
Like sharing good bread
With words he creates pictures
That whisper colours
He touches illness
And calms the cry of pain
He gives his warm heart
And his honest soul
He is not a king
He is not a god
He is a HUMAN BEING
About the poet:
Ms. Joanna Drazba (1971-1995) was a Polish poet, a student of Polish Philology in Poznan, (Poland), and a patient with advanced cancer. After three years of terrible suffering in various hospital units, she benefitted from the palliative care provided at her home in 1994-1995 by Prof. Jacek Luczak (1934-2019), co-founder of palliative care in Poland. Four months before her death, Joanna wrote this dedication poem, to express her immense gratitude. Her literary activities marked the beginning of Narrative Medicine and, more broadly, Medical Humanities in Poland.
“Is there hope?”
“It’s been overwhelming”
“1-2 weeks at the most they told and
The first week is over…”
“Family is in denial
Kindly counsel”, pleaded the young oncologist
“We have been telling them
Over and over,
Please go home!”
“Why did you give me the same therapy?
Why didn’t you change my regimen?
When all this while you knew the bare truth
That my liver has been camouflaged too!”, yelled an unheard voice.
“My birthday falls on Christmas day!
I wish to write my lifestory before I leave.”
Once said the boy with a hat, enduring for the umpteenth time,
Yet leaving the pages blank as he set sail.
“Pray for us doctor, won’t you?”, cried a mother
Barely able to hold herself strong
In front of her teenage boy
Whose relentless gaze pursued the doctor to the ICU door.
“My horoscope said I will die at 70″, remarked the veteran,
“But thanks to science, I am 80 and alive!”
Meanwhile across the corridor, “Doctor has told dad has got only a few hours left.
But the astrologer had mentioned he will live on till 98, so we shall stay put!”
“DNI/DNR? Does the patient know?”
Probed the curious resident.
“Did she get a chance to speak about what she wants?”,
The dissonance echoing on the calligrams clinging to the hospital walls.
The silent stares, speaking a million words;
If left ajar, would open a floodgate of tears,
As their dearest lie threadbare, counting breaths lost
In the abominable lull of the looming slumber.
As the keyboard commands orchestrated medical facts into encrypted data
Forming recommendations on the lives of people and families,
She sat in the basement, safely tucking away the remnants of emotions with other skeletons in her cupboard,
To be frozen in time, until she wielded her pen for a yet another ‘self-care’ day!!
A note of acknowledgement: Dedicated to all the patients and families whose words have literally built and inspired this poem.
About the poet:
Dr. Jyothsna Kuriakose is an Assistant Professor at Christian Medical College Vellore, Tamil Nadu. She is an early career professional in the field of Palliative Medicine with special interest in patient reported outcomes.
.
K
Still sick
laying on the hospital bed
life is in misery,
Not knowing what comes next
The condition is not changing
Parents and family members
are confused and scared don’t
know what comes next in my life
Scared they might lose me for ever
Not see me again
Doctors and nurses are trying
their level best but no chance
of me making it back
Drugs are not responding
The condition continues to
worsen day by day
Here comes the palliative care nurse
Specialised in relieving symptoms
and improve quality of life of patient
A person capable of coping with
Psychological, social, and spiritual issues
She gives support and hope
to both the patient and family members
Finally gotten someone
A person willing to listen
and take action without difficulty
The former meaningless life
Becomes meaningful
My parents and family
get some relief.
About the poet:
Mr. Kabenge Henry Rogers is a student of BSc Nursing at Gitam University focusing on making healthcare services accessible to everyone for better health. This poem is in dedication to all palliative care specialists.
The pain that you aren’t there
The reminder that you’re gone long back
It travels through my veins,
it crawls into my brain
I feel I can’t stand,
I lose all my strength
I can’t sleep all night,
and wake up with my chest up tight.
I feel I’m choking,
something deep inside is breaking.
I feel the creepy crawls deep into my skin.
The constant need to do something,
which I’m not aware.
My body shakes
My brain freezes
My heart pounds
My hands sweat
My eyes are hazy
My ears hear the sounds that’s absolutely crazy.
I feel I’m loosing
Or maybe I have lost Yes,
the reminder.
yes, I HAVE LOST
I have lost you years ago.
I feel I’m dying each time with that drill.
I am surviving it, maybe that’s a skill.
I’m told by everyone all sorts of things
But nobody actually told me “Grief does feel like I’m dying too”
No body tells you Grief feels like dying too.
About the poet:
Ms. Keshav Sharma is a Psycho oncologist and Lead of counselling services at the Bagchi Karunashraya Palliative Care Center, Bhubaneswar. As a reflection of her journey through the landscape of loss, this poem on grief is her personal experience that offers a vital perspective on caregivers feeling and experiencing grief which often goes unaddressed by the professionals and comes with Judgement.
Everything was fine, and then one day, something happened-
The ground slipped away from my feet, and I felt rock bottom hit
I had dreamed of doing so much, achieving so much,
But now, even the days were numbered, and my breath are going to slumbered.
Was shattered, and so was I,
And when I asked “Why me?” even the answers felt incomplete.
Should I wipe my own tears or those of my loved ones?
Life now felt distant, and death seemed existent.
I fit were just death, I would have embraced it,
but this dying everyday, I don’t know how to face it.
Some said, “Try this”, other said, “Try that”,
I did everything, yet everything fell apart.
And then one day I met a doctor – they called them Palliative Doctor.
The pain was still there, but somehow, that day, it felt a little lighter.
They listened – truly listened – to things no one else ever had.
What can I say? It felt like a drowning soul had found a hand.
They asked what no one else ever did,
It was strange, but for the first time, I felt relief without medicine.
Today I exist; tomorrow, I may not.
Before my departure it felt like I already met God.
They didn’t just care for me but for my loved ones too.
What can I say? Not a mere human, but a blessing that I knew.
Keep going, keep easing pain
Today it’s mine; tomorrow, it will be someone else’s strain
You must keep standing strong, inspiring others
Teach them to understand suffering and sufferers…
Can I tell you one thing? I know it’s true –
It wasn’t just me, even someone also felt at peace after healing me, and it’s you.
About the poet:
Dr. Khusbu Singh is an Assistant Professor, Palliative Medicine, at the IMS & SUM Hospital, Bhubaneswar.
The greens are burnt tormented by the sun
The streams of thought dry
The saffron sun of dream wither away
The eyes that loved the colors go to sleep
no
By the sky
On a white horse
is coming
They-
Angels…
They have
Love potions
Caresses
Sweet glances
Colorful smiles
To put out the coals
From the dirt
Like a white dress
From the sickbed
They will purify you…
of mercy
A glance
A touch
A laugh
That’s enough!
Here you are
The old you
With a grateful smile
About the poet:
Mr. Kta Shukkoor Mampad is a Pharmacy Assistant at Jan Aushadi. He enjoys writing poems on malayalam periodicals and social media.
L
In quiet rooms where soft light glow
There are healing hands that know
Unsung, unseen they work night and day
To ease the pain and light the way
Nurses with hands both kind and steady
Tending the wounds both mind and body
With loving words, they ease the fear
A gentle touch to the loved one near
They strive for more than cure
They nurture compassion and care for sure
Doctors with wisdom wise and steady
Bring healing in ways beyond mind and body
They treat with knowledge and compassion
Ensuring that dignity shines through
They listen and plan the way
Balancing care with each passing day
Volunteers with hearts so wide
Devote their time with love as guide
They touch the lives of those in need
Offer presence, comfort and care indeed
Helping families through the darkest days
With quite strength the guide the way
Loved ones at home with hearts aglow
Never thinking why and how
They stand beside night and day
Ensuring love all the way
Sacrificing their own to ensure the best
A patient soul in every zest
Together they form a chain
Their love and care a strong gain
No medals worn, no fame to seek
Yet in their hearts the light is meek
The world may never know their name
But their work is always worthy of acclaim
So here is a salute to those who silently strive
To ensure that dignity will survive
The nurses, the doctors and the entire team
The family that supports with love and dream
About the poet:
Lt. Col. Lovely Antony (Retd.) is a Professor at the National Hospital College of Nursing, Kozhikode, Kerala. She feels that she is blessed to be a blessing.
The call, my call
A response? An echo, a prayer,
Not yet, don’t go, please stay,
Let go, don’t stay for me, enough, fly free,
Leave behind this pain.
But you leave me here, in the pain of my mortal chains.
Don’t go yet. Not yet. One more smile,
Hold me once more, Let me hold you still,
Never let me go,
One more ‘I’m sorry’, so many regrets,
That would never have been made,
If only I had known this moment before,
I would have been better, I promise.
Can you hear me? Do you know?
My call, no response. An echo? a prayer.
You said not to fear, that you will always be here
But how can we know? No certainty, no truth,
Save for the one truth, that you will not be here.
Or is there another truth, your privilege to know,
Beyond our reach as you leave us behind?
You said that you will be here, but I do not know,
With certainty or truth, do you? Do you?
Don’t go, please stay,
I don’t want to leave,
Not yet.
I hear you my child, I feel your hand.
Tired to speak, my eyelids too heavy,
My ears hear you still, my hand feels your hold.
Don’t go, please stay. Not yet.
Let me hold you once more.
Through closed lids, I see your tears, my child,
Through open heart, I feel your pain,
This is the love of your mother.
I will always be here.
You can let go,
It’s safe,
My mortal chains loosen their hold, save for that on my heart,
The feeble beating of the organ of love, holding you in your pain,
urged to soothe your tears.
Soon this organ, too, will fail, but not the love it has pumped,
I must go, my child. I cling for you.
I must come now, my mother, I reach for you.
Know this, my child, may it soothe you,
I reach for my mother as I cling to your hand,
I hear my mother calling me to come,
I feel no fear in her voice,
My mother, The Mother, my father, Our Father,
Thou has not forsaken me,
Oh, my mother, how I wept at your tomb,
How I hated the naked flames that curled around your white clad flesh,
Greedily consuming your mortal corpse,
My tears could not extinguish,
I did not know that you were here.
Until now as I offer you my heart, my child.
This feeble heart that beats now only for you will soon be yours,
Loosen your grip, my child. I will not go.
This heart, replete with the love that was ever yours,
Blood pumped through the placenta,
Breast milk infused with a love that grew in your every cell,
Will hold you through our mortal coupling and into a love divine.
Fear not, little one. Fear not.
As you were ripped from my body in a final scream of visceral pain,
So now, will my body be ripped from your clasp,
Safely to be delivered into the arms of my mother,
Our mother,
Immortal,
Amen.
A response to the call,
I hear it.
Silence the sobs of your lungs my child and you will hear it too,
Allow salt water to wash your eyes and you will see beauty in this moment,
I need to go now, I hear you, I love you,
Listen for the response to your call,
No regrets, for there is nothing to regret,
No forgiveness, for there is nothing to forgive,
The call has a response.
Listen now as I breathe my last.
Om Shantih
Salam
Shalom
Amen.
About the poet:
Ms. Lucy Kralj is a psychotherapist and former nurse and spent many years working in palliative care in various hospices, mostly in the UK. Her life has been shaped by experiences of loss, including the loss of my best friend, Kay, who died in 2016 and I miss today as much as ever. This poem is for her and Anand.
M
My day starts early at the break of dawn
for I know they await, those
whom I cannot take for granted,
some hanging by the thread for dear life,
while others have months, perhaps, to go.
All in the end, suffering badly,
inching towards their end.
So, I quickly wrap up my chores,
pack lunch boxes, do all that needs to be done,
get ready for the day
for I am the care-giver.
My day starts early at the break of dawn
at times, even ending with the next dawn
from where it picks up, without rest or sleep, the day starts again;
a day like the one yesterday, the day before, the day-day before,
when I watch life fading away,
careful to bury this pain
in the recesses of mind and heart,
for I cannot afford an emotional breakdown,
that has to be stowed away for another day,
knowing too well all these accumulated pain
will surface unfavourably taking toll on mind and body,
yet today, there is no time to brood or break,
for duty calls, decisions await,
for this care-giver in white apron dressed.
My day starts early at the break of dawn
when I steel myself for the day
to handle pain, sores, cries and woes
till the moon rises, but until then
I must shelf my worries away,
ready the trays, administer doses, lay needles and essentials
to dull the pain.
There is no light at the end of this dark tunnel
I try to assuage the pain,
listen to tales, wipe away tears;
but deep within I know my role ends here,
for I am the care-giver, donning a white cap.
About the poet:
Dr. Malabika Mitra is an author who wishes to understand and see the world from multiple perspectives.
Yes, she is old, but once she shined,
A life like gold, so rare, so kind.
Now time has slowed, yet her heart still glows,
Why does the world forget what it knows?
The wrinkles on her gentle face,
Etch a story, a life of grace.
Each line a chapter, joys and tears,
Yet praise for her fades with the years.
Her body falters, steps unsure,
Once so strong—now fragile, pure.
Old age is a child’s return,
A heart that longs, a soul that yearns.
She dreams to walk, to laugh, to share,
Yet finds only silence, vacant stares.
Her wishes are few, so soft, so mild,
Yet the world treats them as something wild.
She fought, she loved, she gave her all,
Yet who will catch her when she falls?
A little kindness, a hand to hold,
A voice to say, “Your worth is gold.”
She whispers prayers at temple gates,
For peace, for love, for kinder fates.
Her hands once busy with endless care,
Now tremble softly in silent prayer.
She lives for family, near and far,
A guiding light, a steadfast star.
No storm could break, no time erase,
The love she holds, her warm embrace.
So love, care, and humbly pray,
For time will take us all one day.
Let’s cherish her before she’s gone,
Before her song fades into dawn.
About the poet:
Dr. Mamta Parihar is an Associate Professor at the Government College of Nursing, Jodhpur. A trained nurse, Dr Parihar believes in living each day as if it were the last, loving unconditionally, caring for everyone, and extending a helping hand to all.
When pain had settled in my bones,
And time had blurred my name,
You came with whispers soft as dawn,
And lit my world again.
Your touch, a balm on weary skin,
Your voice, a song so kind,
In silent nights, in endless days,
You held my trembling mind.
You turned my sorrow into light,
A warmth so fierce, so true,
Not just my wounds, but all of me,
Was mended here by you.
With every step you walked beside,
With every tear you knew,
You were my strength, my gentle guide,
When all the world withdrew.
So here I lie, my heart at peace,
With gratitude so wide
For hands that heal, for love that stays,
Forever by my side.
About the poet:
Ms. Maya Nair is a Senior Nurse and Patient Educator at Shri Aurobindo Institute of Medical Science, Indore. She feels that while working in palliative field she can see how all these emotions can be woven into such beautiful poems, and am really happy to share inputs for this concept where we all are seen, heard and felt.
Never an easy place for the one who is maimed
Physically, emotionally, mentally
Cold. Lost. Devastated.
Speechless. All nerves.
Never an easy place for the family
To gulp down what has just hit
Shattered dreams, changed priorities
The well-wishers: what and how and how much to share and why
You plead to the God on the hills
Plead in courts of heaven
Night and day, weeks and months
To shake off the legal rights of the evil one
To break chains
And close open doors
You weigh options, make decisions..
Make new vows
Design and resign to new ways of living
But, a new life awaits
As you claim His promises
Cos He has plans for your future
And He ain’t one to forsake
He Heals you
Restores you
He gives you back what you lost
Deepest valleys it may be
But His grace is sufficient
New strength, right paths
As He makes the way
As He refines…
About the poet:
Ms. Midhu Luke is a writer, speaker, and caregiver advocate, passionate about resilience, healing, and faith. A dedicated Bible study enthusiast, she draws from personal experiences of loss and renewal to inspire hope. Ms. Midhu empowers others through creative expressions and meaningful conversations about life’s most challenging journeys.
Between heartbeats, we measure time
not in hours, but in moments of clarity—
the way sunlight filters through blinds,
painting golden stripes across your blanket.
Your hand in mine, paper-thin,
a map of rivers that carried you
through eighty-two winters. I memorize
each line, each story untold.
They ask if there is pain.
You smile, shake your head.
“Not when she’s here,” you whisper,
eyes finding mine across the room.
The nurse adjusts your pillows,
speaks in that gentle cadence
reserved for these sacred spaces.
She knows the weight of waiting.
Last week, you asked for music.
Today, it’s silence you crave—
the soft percussion of rainfall,
the rhythm of our shared breath.
I read to you from dog-eared pages,
poems you taught me as a child.
The words hang between us,
suspended in the quiet air.
This is how we honor the journey:
not in desperate grasping,
but in tender surrender,
in the grace of letting go.
Tomorrow is uncertain,
but this moment is ours—
your fingers curled around mine,
as we navigate this final passage together.
About the poet:
Dr. Mohit N. Makwana is an Assistant Professor at the Gujarat Cancer & Research Institute, Ahmedabad. Dr Makwana believes that he transforms life’s quiet struggles and tender care into verses that echo compassion and hope.
O do not come to see
How ‘death’ looks like on me,
That garment I shall wear
For a fleeting moment only!
And then be reborn as:
A hairclip for your head
Or perhaps the black thread
Around your ankle.
Or, maybe the spot
On your cheek that
Dimples with a smile?
I could also come
Back as
The beauty spot on your shoulder.
Or the milk-skin on your back.
Or would you want me as the frill on
Your satin skirt?
Or a crease in your
Brocade blouse?
Or maybe as the little girl,
that begs at the temple step?
Or the old, wrinkled
Woman
Who waits patiently
At the Kashi-ghat
For her pyre?
Or the delectable, dark-skinned
Youth,
With bandana and flute?
The one who calls himself Krishna,
Or, maybe, Khrishta?
Or the vine of whose
Nectar your lips
Shall taste ecstasy?
A hope in
Your hopeless moments?
Or maybe..
just maybe
A dream..
That keeps you awake at night.
No?
Then
Desire me as you will
And I promise to come
As Your Desired!
About the poet:
Ms. Moushumi Chatterjee Singh is an Educator and a Palliative Counsellor at the Shanti Palliative Care and Nursing Home, Siliguri. She is a wordsmith at heart, a teacher by profession and a Palliative Care Counsellor by intrigue!
N
It’s better to not live
In the world of Death
Good, if someone known or unknown
Takes away my Breath.
Difficulty to converse
To get ready to rehearse
Till someone comes
To ride me on the hearse
Thinking beyond this Gray
With a hope of Ray
Heaven exists or Hell exists?
The less I resist
Easier my exit
Being prepared to enter
The Heavenly encounter
It’s not faith alone
But, by the love I own
My journey is surely heavenly home.
I then got up
Then realised
I am up and demised
Separated from physical
Left my sleep
Awake and deep
Hearing sounds every where
Some human here, some inhuman there
But origin
From known and unknown layer being thin My spirit lingered
Day to day
But by third day
I was on my freeway
Accompanied by THE ONE who sent
To journey from my EARTHLY TENT.
About the poet:
Dr. Naveen Rudolf Rodrigues is a physician at the AJ Cancer Institute. He feels that preparedness is a call of reality.
As I passed a look into her eyes,
She looked back with an anxious face.
As I offered her a sweet smile,
I found her widening her eyes.
Yes, I met her during my visit to the casualty ward;
Despite my tired face, I tried to continue to smile.
The pancreatic cancer had almost devoured her body inch by inch;
She tried to hold back her tears.
As I touched her hand with mine,
She smiled back, though all in awe.
As I leaned towards her to hear,
She whispered she wanted to ask something,
giving a weak look to her daughter.
Her daughter, herself a doctor, sanctioned her, the wish.
Her lips shivering, my poor patient asked me a question.
I listened, putting my ears close to her lips,
The question shook my heart not once!
“Doctor, Shall I have an ice cream?”
She trembled and fell silent after the question.
This time my smile was all teary;
As I nodded yes ignoring her daughters ‘no’ expression,
Oh! her divine smile radiating through her withered body.
Next, her daughter smiled; such a brightness in the room!
I pictured for one minute the poor mother,
Relishing her favourite ice cream with joy.
As I walked away, I knew I healed their hearts.
More than ever, I was in peace!! Little things matter a lot.
About the poet:
Dr. Neethu Susan Abraham is a Consultant and a palliative care physician at SGMMH, Parumala.
In quiet wards where shadows creep,
A lamp glows soft, a vigil keeps.
A trembling hand, a whispered plea,
Holds hope amidst life’s frailty.
A nurse, with sindoor on her brow,
Sings lullabies from long ago
A doctor’s steady, gentle gaze,
Guides through pain’s unyielding maze.
A daughter clings to fading light,
A father fights through endless night.
Each breath, a thread in time’s thin weave,
A love too deep to ever leave.
Not just the drip of saline’s flow,
But stories shared in voices low.
A jasmine bloom, a tender smile,
To ease the journey, mile by mile.
Palliative hands, with sacred care,
Hold lives too precious to despair.
No battle lost, no war to win,
Just peace where healing can begin.
Though cities rush and villages wait,
We bridge the gap, we change the fate.
From urban sprawl to rural skies,
Compassion blooms where sorrow lies.
Let public health with care unite,
To cast a warm, embracing light.
Not just to cure what illness stole,
But mend the heart, and heal the soul.
About the poet:
Dr. Noronha Levis Manuel is a second year Post Graduate Resident at St. Johns Medical College, Bengaluru. Dr. Levis is a public health doctor, bridging care and compassion beyond cure.
P
Palliative care starts
Not at the end.
But begins at the
very beginning.
When the newborn cries, mother’s breast, and hugs,
besides milk, stops its pain.
When the baby stumbles and falls.
Mama’s soothing care calms it.
When father scolds son or daughter,
They run to mom for succour and support.
When life’s challenges overwhelm you,
Friends buoy up your spirits.
As boss blows
his top in office
And puts you on notice,
Wife cradles your throbbing head,
counsels patience, triggers in you
clear-headed thinking,
lest you should take
some hasty steps.
When daughter leaves
for husband’s house
on marriage,
husband hugs crying wife
and eases her pain,
hiding his own
aching heart.
Are these not palliative care?
When you fall sick. and needles
and tubes probe your body,
the smiling nurse
halves the pain.
When medicines
won’t work,
And your limbs
cry out in pain.
painkillers help,
but up to a point
But doctors, nurses and health counsellors..,
With words of wisdom,
love and affection, coupled with
their smiling faces,
soothe your misery.
And, finally, GOD rids you of all the agony!
About the poet:
Mr. P. K. Subramanian, resident of Chennai holds a postgraduate degree in History. He worked in The Hindu for 35 years and retired as Chief Editor. He is a keen observer of people and things around, and is interested in expressing his thoughts.
Numb to the pain, yet she screams with every breath,
A radiant smile hides the agony beneath.
As she surrenders to the embrace of death,
One thought lingers—refusing to rest.
Her young girl, her world since twenty-five,
She gazes at her with teary eyes,
Knowing tomorrow, she won’t be there—
A mother’s love, a silent despair.
Prescriptions she can’t afford, pain that won’t subside,
She searches for care, yet there’s none on her side.
A choice between medicine or a meal,
Suffering in silence, wounds left to heal.
I wish her pain could fade away,
Her fears dissolve, her burdens sway.
I wish care was not a privilege rare,
But a right—compassionate and fair.
Palliative care, a distant dream,
For those unheard, and unseen.
A promise yet to be unfurled—
Care that is available for all.
About the poet:
Dr. Preksha Singh is a Public Health Research fellow with the NHSRC. She is a public health researcher with a passion to make palliative care a reality from the dream of masses.
Oh! The time begins for us!
The rhythm of the clock ticking with
The nuanced transitions of my beloved,
At a snail’s pace of dying!
Holding your hand with anticipatory grief,
Endeavouring to be resilient
With the hopeless love of mine!
Perhaps all the miracles turned out
To be catastrophes.
Oh deity! You choose my beloved one over everything!
When the comfort care gives you solace!
Oh my love! How can I tell you
What’s happening without beating around the bush?
Oh my love! How can I triumph over
The fear of losing you?
How can I be courageous to fight a battle that
I know I’ll lose!
In the compassionate presence of palliative care,
I’m able to embrace my heavy heart and
Express my feelings and thoughts!
You deserve all the solicitude
In the universe, and that soothes me!
It could turn our tears into treasure!
Hell into Heaven!
Sayonara! My love!
Hitherto the memories for eternity, my love!
About the poet:
Ms. Priya Rajendran is a Psychologist in Pain and Palliative Care at the Cancer Institute, Adyar, Chennai. She feels that she is knowingly a Psychologist and unknowingly a care provider for her beloved one.
R
Were you ever curious to know
If Hell is hot oil in Urns
Or a flaming fire that burns?
Come, share my bed.
A Demon set throne in my throat
And ravaged with humongous hunger.
Devoured my organs within its sight
Dancing rampant with all its might.
Palliative Care is a boon
To those who won’t leave soon.
The Doomsday dance is never ending.
The writhing pain is all but pending.
I know not if it’s day or night.
Am I hungry, or, it’s my bowels’ burn?
Am I alone or are there many?
My head splits. Oh! When is it my turn?
Family, friends, not in comprehension.
Pain and more pain, only my cognition.
Oh Sleep! Thou shall embrace
And carry me to Eternal Space.
About the poet:
Ms. Rajini Mahalingam is an Edit Coordinator with the Adyar Times, a neighbourhood newspaper.
Touch life tenderly like seed cotyledons,
with warm, safe Fatherly hands that deliver, embrace and set free.
Heal life grace-fully like seed cotyledons
that shed body and blood for striving, foothold-seeking vulnerability.
Surrender life trustfully like seed cotyledons,
transformed in consecrating, the Sacrament of the present moment.
About the poet:
Dr. Reena George is a palliative care physician and radiation oncologist by training. She is a Senior Professor at the Department of Continuing Medical Education, CMC Vellore, Tamil Nadu.
My childhood companion, my sweetest friend
My confidant, the teasing enemy and wicked monitor
I had little clue that I would, that it would, end so soon
So abrupt and painfully
The misery endless and so intense the loss
The suffering in my heart, the churning pain
The pangs of hurt, and the melancholic bile.
It blows me off, that slow kill
I wasn’t asked if so-much of me could just be taken away, from me
Just kept heavens and seas apart
My little loving sister
My young joyous sister
My life line and my life light, the colour in my vision
The sun of my cloudy sky, the pulse of my beating heart, the fragrance of my being
The sweet melodious music of my essence
A part of me.
My bright sunny sister,
When you go away, a part of me also ceases to be
Dreams did we see together, or was it a castle we grew in the sands
Together as if we had to stay forever, in that world of Bliss
Childlike and carefree together we could, we would share the fun and the lows of life
Life goes on…
I’m glad we even met, shared our moments of joys and sorrows
Of happiness and misery
Your loss is a vacuum
With no substitutes
We imbibe in us, the best you had to give
Your tinkling laughter will clear the dark skies again
Show us the path
Our guiding angel, our damsel in shining armour
None can replace
No one can come near to be, what you have meant to me
But that’s just how I’d like it to be
Theat something so special; so precious and pure
Gentle and delicate, a relationship, that companionship the joy and glee
I miss myself, the self that I was with you
I don’t know which part I do miss the most
You, our relationship or that part of me that exulted in being with you, that me
My Jany.
About the poet:
Dr. Ruparna Khurana is a palliative care physician working as an Associate Consultant, Palliative Medicine, at Sir Ganga Ram Hospital, New Delhi. She feels that her profession gives her a lot of inspiration and motivation to write, to feel, and to express her thoughts.
S
Rest now, dear heart, release all fear,
for love remains, forever near.
The hands you’ve held, the joy you’ve known,
are woven deep—you’re not alone.
Though shadows stretch and breath turns light,
a softer glow outshines the night.
A path awaits, serene and bright,
where pain dissolves in endless light.
The love you gave, the lives you graced,
will never dim, will not erase.
In laughter’s song, in tales retold,
your spirit burns in ambered gold.
Like autumn leaves in swirling flight,
or waves that kiss the edge of night,
your essence lingers, warm and true,
in hearts that beat because of you.
Each whispered breeze, each budding tree,
will hold your touch, your memory.
Your kindness lives—it does not die,
but soars like larks that skim the sky.
Though hands release, the soul stays near,
love does not wane, it shines more clear.
It hums, it glows, it lights the way,
a star that never drifts away.
You do not vanish, nor depart,
but turn toward dawn with quiet heart.
And when we part, love won’t deny—
we’ll meet where stardust paints the sky.
So do not grieve, but lift your eyes,
beyond the clouds, beyond goodbyes.
For every tear, a seed is sown,
and love will bloom where light has grown.
About the poet:
Ms. S. Tongpangkokla Ozukum is a Nurse tutor at Tuensang District Hospital, Nagaland. She is a seasoned Nurse tutor with a poetic feeling in heart.
Looking at the mirror, looking at myself in the mirror, I thought,
Am I really replaceable?
Is it wrong for me to think that I don’t want to be replaceable?
Is it not normal for people to think,
to expect that I be missed,
instead of all the love that was once mine
being given so easily to another?
Why am I thinking like this?
Why can’t I be happy for my loved one,
knowing they find a source to stay strong in my absence?
Why do I want them to miss me?
What is this need?
Is it wrong to see myself as valuable,
to believe I am rare, irreplaceable,
inimitable—one of a kind?
Is it wrong to feel that no one
can take my place,
that my presence cannot be substituted,
that my uniqueness should remain?
I have lived with these bonds, these expectations,
the belief that I am not just another face,
not just a shadow meant to fade.
These thoughts gave me strength in life—
so why, when the disease takes hold,
do they tell me to let go?
They say I must reach beyond,
must find peace in surrender.
But I do not want that growth.
I do not want to rise;
I only want to remain.
About the poet:
Ms. Sarada Lingaraju is a Counsellor at Sparsh Hospice. She is also a patient advocate at heart.
In the hushed embrace of a room where time slows its pace,
A spiritual counsellor sees a tender heart lingering by Grace.
Hands clasped in prayer, a gentle heart unfurls,
Bearing the weight of sorrow, as hope swirls.
“Tell me your story,” whispers the counsellor like cool breeze,
As silent tears drop, and fears begin to ease.
“Not just the fight,” the spiritual counsellor softly whispers,
“But the light in your Soul, the love that it registers.”
The patient, pale, with battles engraved in skin,
Speaks of love, of loss, and where they’ve been.
Tracing the lines of a map, deeply worn,
Charting the love in a heart that feels torn.
In every word spoken, in every soft sigh,
Grasping the fragments of days passing by.
Each word a petal, fragile yet profound,
In the garden of courage, a single voice found.
Beneath the weight of prognosis grim,
Flames flicker quietly, defiantly brim,
The altar of dreams, within the heart,
Where faith can linger, and shadows depart.
So they sit together, in life’s fleeting hour,
Drawn closer by pain, yet sharing their power.
A Soul-bond forged in silence, a sacred release,
In the arms of Divine Compassion, they find their peace.
In a room hushed by the weight of breath,
Where shadows linger, whispering death,
Each word a soothing balm, each prayer a song,
To cradle the soul where it originally belongs.
“Fear not this passage,” the spiritual counsellor softly breathes,
“Beyond the veil your journey continues in the arms of God”, my heart believes.
A spiritual counsellor stands, a candle’s glow,
A bridge between the worlds, a heart laid low.
About the poet:
Dr. Sathya Sai Shree Lakshmi is a Spiritual Counsellor at Sri Sathya Sai Palliative Care Center, Puttaparthi, Andhra Pradesh. Dr. Lakshmi feels that a spiritual counsellor role is the most important role in palliative care so it has to be included and known to other people.
What is it that binds us tight,
Though we differ, though we fight?
What is it that lifts my soul,
When life feels heavy, far from whole?
What is it that helps me stand,
Through storm and sorrow, hand in hand?
What is it that keeps me strong,
When every path feels dark and wrong?
What is it that soothes the past,
That lets the wounds fade out at last?
What is it that lets me be,
With all my scars, yet still feel free?
The more I search, the more I see,
The answer lives inside of me.
Not in the world, not in their view—
But in the love that’s deep and true.
A love unshaken, pure, untold,
That warms my heart when nights are cold.
That whispers softly, You are enough,
Through every trial, through every rough.
It is the love I give to me,
Unchained, unbound, and unconditional eternally.
About the poet:
Ms. Satya Sita L. Kavalipurapu is the Head of training at Sparsh Hospice. Ms. Kavalipurapu is passionate about fine arts and compassionate about palliative care and attempts to elicit an unsung melody from the bottom of her heart.
This journey once had just begun,
The years have passed, yet hope remains.
Left behind all work and money,
Still clinging to life through all its pains.
Bedbound now, with aching pain,
Each wound and scar, a tale to say.
Gazing far at endless skies,
It feels like fate has turned away.
Seemed like none were truly mine,
No hands to hold, no voice to hear.
Yet angels came to stand so tall,
A guiding staff when dark was near.
So many wounds, so much strife,
At times my soul was torn apart.
Yet these angels, kind and true,
They held me soft as petals’ heart.
Pain and sorrow come and go,
A part of life, this truth remains.
Yet through their strong support
They soothe my soul and heal my pains.
When my body lay weak and still,
Their hands became my guiding light.
Through every ache and every struggle
They kept me safe through day and night.
At times, it feels on earth so wide,
A heaven where pure spirits stay.
For in their care, so deep, so true,
I saw the divine in human way…
About the poet:
Dr. Sawani Rajendra Aphale is a Senior resident at the Department of Musculoskeletal Physiotherapy, Krishna Vishwa Vidyapeeth, deemed to be University, Karad. Dr. Aphale is a physiotherapist by profession and a poet by passion, finding harmony in healing and words.
Caught in the throes of suffering
“Why me” reverberates in the air
An unending quest for meaning
Is the quintessential journey in palliative care
In the denouement of life, with no encore
As the curtains begin to fall
“Why me” shakes each one’s core
The universal quest binding us all
Quelled by life, the mighty fall
To live with shattered faith, deluded belief
It is then that “Why me” makes a landfall
Anchoring them in the ocean of grief
We, the healers, often grope in the dark
Unsure of which way to go
Strive with our presence to leave a mark
Providing solace to those battling through
Knowing that the “Why me” is not ours to solve
We sit, we listen, we watch the question grow
Honoring each belief, we let the answer evolve
While holding space for the tears to flow
Bearing witness and trying not to mend
Not providing answers, nor fixing anything
Accompanying the other, till the journey’s end
Restoring hope, while offering comfort unending
About the poet:
Dr. Seema Rajesh Rao is the Director, Education and Research, at BHT-KIPCER. She is a doctor by profession, and a writer by choice.
A mother crying on the floor,
Begging me to do something more.
Her voice a whisper, sharp and clear,
After a thousand miles, I cannot unhear.
My mother lives a hundred miles away,
Pleading for my presence, trials.
Her words are soft, a distant plea,
“Come, my child, come back to me.”
A wife, too stunned to speak a word,
Watching as her love’s unheard.
Her husband’s body, still, so cold,
A story left that won’t be told.
My partner wonders, lost in thought,
“Has she eaten, or is she caught
In endless work, with no reprieve,
Not knowing what she needs to believe?”
A friend watches with bated breath,
As his own friend hovers close to death.
His heart, in turmoil, torn and weak,
With every breath, his soul does seek.
My friends wait, longing for the day,
When laughter fills the air, and play.
For one more hug, for one more cheer,
To hold me close and feel me near.
Where do I go with this weight inside,
This heaviness, I cannot hide?
A heart so full of love and grief,
Caught between hope and disbelief.
I try, I try to heal the pain,
To wash away the endless rain.
I tell myself, with trembling mind,
There’s purpose hidden in this grind.
A higher purpose calls to me,
To help the ones who cannot see,
The light beyond their darkest night,
The path that leads them toward the light.
I help these families facing loss,
As grief consumes, they bear the cost.
I guide them through the endless night,
And show them how to find the light.
Let my work become their grace,
A healing touch, a sacred place.
Let their death be dignified,
Free of suffering, where tears have dried.
For my purpose in this life,
Is to end their pain, their strife.
To facilitate the sacred way,
And help them find the strength to pray.
In every loss, I see my task,
To lift their burdens, take the mask.
For through my hands, they’ll find their peace,
A final journey’s sweet release.
About the poet:
Dr. Shruti Kamble is a third-year junior resident at Tata Memorial Hospital, Mumbai. As a young cancer survivor, my profession often makes me question who I am. This poem is my way of exploring and finding meaning in my work of providing compassionate and person-centred care.
Come on friends we can run
We can run for better things
Life is very beautiful one
We can make it easy one
Come on friends we can run
Intimacy is a precious thing
We can share everything
There is worth where is faith
We can’t change time
We can change faith
Come on friends we can run
We can run for better things
We can run holding hands
We can say we are there
Will be there where is need
Come on friends we can run
Holding hands till the end
Come on friends we can run
We can run for better things
About the poet:
Ms. Shyamala Kumari is a nurse pensioner at Ashakiran NGO, Jaipur. After taking Voluntary retirement in 2004 from service as nursing grade 1, she has been working as a nurse in home care unit for palliative care for cancer patients in Jaipur.
“Doctor please don’t tell her anything”, he pleaded,
Beads of sweat forming on his forehead, eyes moist with tears..
“She’ll break, she’ll end up losing the battle without a fight”
“She can read” I tried explaining,
“When she finds out, she’ll have to deal with the pain of betrayal alongside her diagnosis”..
He looked shaken,
“We’ll prep her well for the battle ahead” I promised.
“Which stage is it?” She looked devastated
“It’s locally advanced but hasn’t spread to any other site” I said,
“We’ll try our best to cure it completely”
A flicker of hope ran across her face
“Doctor.. I want to live” she held my hand,
“You will”, I reciprocated.
“It just gets worse” she looked fatigued,
“The repeated needle punctures, the thrombosed veins,
The decreasing appetite, the intermittent pain,
Eating medicines like food everyday
When does this end?”
“Maa.. the tumor has decreased in size”, her son reasoned, “Please be patient”
“No worries” I said,
“Let’s make this path easier for you to traverse”
I dialled a number to the palliative care doctor
“I feel good” she gleamed
“Doctor, can I cook sometimes?”
“You can cook, then read a story book,
Watch a nice movie, and sing your favourite song”, I reassured her, “Love yourself and never lose hope”
“I promise to fight as long as you fight for me,
I promise to live as long as life stays within me”
Her eyes brimming with hope
“Thank you doctor.. for being there”.
About the poet:
Dr. Soumita Majumdar is a Senior Registrar (Radiation Oncology) at the Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose Cancer Hospital, Kolkata. Dr. Majumdar is a full-time doctor who helps people in their fight against cancer, a passionate dancer, a Yoga enthusiast and a poet-under-construction.
The pain, raining through her eyes,
Made her whole life, look like lies!
Sometimes fiery, sometimes so sad;
For everyone around, she seemed mad.
It made her every moment so hard, she-
couldn’t love from heart, even her lad.
Then one day came by the wizards,
With the invisible “cloak” in hands.
The ENDs were not ‘the end’ surely,
As they made her life again, lively.
Watching her kids dance in the rain,
She joined them, as was free from pain!
Her quality of life now being better,
She could focus, on things that matter!!
Now, her days are happy and bright,
And she is confident she can fight.
Her eyes now sing the songs of battle,
Fought daily and won, yet remain subtle
‘Free from pain’ is no more a fantasy,
It is her right earned: a life with dignity.
With the fully equipped team by her side,
Her life is going to be positive, a ride.
About the poet:
Ms. Sree Priya S. is a Coordinator-Education and Skill Building Department at Pallium India. She is a professional turning passionate about palliative care during the last 3 years.
When you find yourself
Inside the tunnel called doubt
Keep in mind, about the little Ampersand
Between sorrow and joy
Bridging the gap between those two
A gentle reminder
Joy exists and follows often
More than not
Sit tight and watch the timeline to expand
Let the time flow through the little Ampersand
Behold the little Ampersand
Sitting quietly
Between triumph and defeat
Mending and tending
The ravaged battleground beneath
So the grasses grow again
And the creepers embrace,
The abandoned swords
Stand quietly on the wrecked land
Let the time flow through the little Ampersand
Let the little Ampersand
Hang with hesitance
Between doubt and clarity
Until your mind gives away the lucidity
Let them howl, take your time
Make your own bread and don’t let the houseplant die
For that is enough when you are overwhelmed
Your happiness demands to be prevailed
Choices are mostly fleeting
Transitory are the decisions
If they break you, go ahead and make new ones
Carve them to be washed away on moving sand
Let the time flow through the little Ampersand
The Ampersand is a two-way road though
The time keeps shuttling as they go
Remember the Ampersand anyway
If you are riding high
Or sinking low
Let the Ampersand flow.
About the poet:
Ms. Subhasree Das is a Scientific Officer at the Homi Bhabha Cancer Hospital and Research Centre, Vizag, Tata Memorial Hospital. Ms. Das is someone who has long kept her writings hidden on her journal but has only recently gotten the courage to share them with the world.
Oh dear Doctor, please ease my pain,
All your efforts till now are going in vain,
A constant throb, a gnawing ache,
If nothing works, please sedate.
Each breath is a struggle, a silent battle,
A fight for life, a last will to live,
A fading hope, a dimming light,
An untold story, a message to give.
The needles pierce, it’s hard to bear,
A constant reminder, the death is near,
These tears and fears, my pleading eyes,
The cry of my soul, the lost fight.
Play some soft music or a lullaby,
It’s the last chapter of life, the ending of my life,
My whole story, rewinding in my mind,
Just like a reel, with emotions entwined.
Blessed are those, who die without knowing,
They die with intact emotions, without thinking,
But I can see the God Yama, standing next to my bed,
Waiting for the right time, counting my breath.
For now, I am closing my eyes,
With a hope to open them again,
To carry on our left over conversation,
And hang on, till the world ends.
About the poet:
Dr. Suboohi Jafar is a Consultant, Apex Super Speciality Hospital and Post Graduate Institute, Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh. Dr. Jafar is an oncologist, and a trilingual poet, loves to write in Hindi, English and Urdu.
It was during a clinical bedside class
That my teacher addressed the mass,
“Always take care of your patients’ dignity.
It is your utmost responsibility!”
Examination had exposed the skin of the patient.
He gently adjusted the piece of garment.
While working for Palliative Care,
His voice kept echoing in my ear.
I stand in front of a bedridden gentleman,
He’s in pain and in the end of his lifespan.
He had a large bedsore on his back,
It had extended till his lower back.
He was hesitant to show his wound,
He had dressed it himself in spite of being bed-bound.
Two women professionals had gone to care.
His choice was respected, but it also caused despair.
“My husband has passed stools and needs diaper change.
Do you know any male nurse in your contact range?”
Asked on call by a woman caregiver,
“Sorry Ma’am, I know none.” was my answer.
I enter a house and was asked to come later,
Because they were yet to bathe her.
The place of bath was second floor balcony!
Seeing a 99 year old naked in public caused agony.
Small house in a tightly packed community;
Son and grandson were only doing their duty!
Elderly woman left in store room on a bed.
Severe arthritis kept all her limbs flexed.
Making her wear clothes was an impossible task.
At least cover her with a towel, we had to ask.
“It hurts!”. She kept screaming.
Family casually dismissed her suffering.
Another house, another bedridden elder-
Paraplegic and with an inserted catheter.
As the nurse finished caring for the wound,
I spoke with him standing near the head end.
To check his orientation I asked him the date.
The wife suddenly remembered that it was 28th!
She had forgotten to wish him, it was his birthday.
Lying in pain “Thank you” was all he could say!
Gender sensitivity gets narrowed down at old-age.
Healthcare, especially Palliative Care seems like a privilege!
Many tend to prefer female doctor during childbirth;
Such choices cannot be thought of while nearing death.
Medical professionals don’t see gender to care.
Concept of privacy or gender specific care is rare.
‘Dignity in end of life’ is talked about a lot,
Practical feasibility about this is a food for thought!
About the poet:
Dr. Sushma M. N. has worked as a Medical Manager for Palliative Care at SVYM, Bengaluru. She is now pursuing her MPH at JSS Medical College, Mysore.
She was young, charming entered my room with faded smile
Her expressions revealed, was in pain all that while
As I went through all papers on other side of table
Could make out, her suffering was not curable
Her hubby looked at me with hope and expectation
She was also cognizant of her situation
I looked into her eyes, could read her mind
Why did God choose her and was unkind?
How long will I survive, did she mean to say
A difficult question for me to answer every other day
As she was being treated and months passed
It was a displeasure to see her, not respond
Her breathlessness worsened and so her pain
All the efforts were now in vain
She was admitted one single morning
As I entered her room, still could see her feebly smiling
Eyes perplexed with same inquisitiveness
Do you have something for my breathlessness?
Grasped my hand with all the strength
As if wanted to say, do something for my sinking health
Clueless did I stood, knowing the fact
Time had come but no one was ready to accept
Never felt so helpless and exhausted
As I walked out, my eyes were wet and everything got blurred
Tried my level best to make her destination peaceful
Two days later she left us, nonetheless family was thankful
Patients need not only treatment, but also counselling, and holistic care
That is what I have learned all these years in palliative care
About the poet:
Dr. Sweety Gupta is an Additional Professor at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences Rishikesh. She has been actively associated with palliative care for oncology patients.
T
By the Ganga’s flow, where whispers rise,
A hospice stands under endless skies.
Morphine’s touch, soft and kind,
Eases pain, brings peace of mind.
Nurses care with gentle hands,
Healing wounds, both body and soul’s demands.
Their love, a light, steady and true,
Guiding the weary, seeing them through.
Near the banks, a temple glows,
Where prayers rise and calmness flows.
Incense drifts, spirits feel free,
Lifting hearts to eternity.
In this place, love takes its role,
Through medicine, care, and a healing soul.
By the Ganga’s grace, peace is near,
A gentle journey, free from fear.
About the poet:
Dr. Taranjit Singh is a Consultant / Chief Medical Officer at the Ganga Prem Hospice, Rishikesh. Dr. Singh believes Where science meets soul, bringing light to the shadows of pain and fear.
In quiet rooms where time stands still,
life’s gentle whispers weave a quilt,
of moments bathed in soft embrace,
where pain and peace find their place.
Hands that hold with strength and grace,
in every touch, a sacred trace,
of love that soothes and helps us feel,
as weary souls begin to heal.
Eyes that see beyond the veil,
through every sorrow, joy prevails,
connections deep, like roots that bind,
in hearts and memories intertwined.
Reflections in the evening glows,
of journeys shared, where kindness flows,
in every smile, a silent song,
of comfort that helps us move along.
Through every breath, a story told,
of lives transformed, of hearts consoled,
in palliative care’s tender thread,
a tapestry of love is spread.
In moments fleeting, yet profound,
we find a solace so profound,
and in the stillness, our hearts align,
in this journey, truly divine.
About the poet:
Mr. Tony Tremblett is a Spiritual Care Practitioner at St. Michael’s Centre. Mr. Tremblett lives on Canada’s pacific coast with a growing collection of books and DVDs, and a dwindling supply of dark chocolate.
V
Take a pause. Take a pause. Take a pause.
To recognize palliative care is best to trust when cure is lost.
Take a pause. Take a pause. Take a pause.
Share the truth with compassion, for families adrift in shock.
Take a pause. Take a pause. Take a pause.
Avoid the rush, for futile treatment wastes precious time well spent in your testing times.
Take a pause. Take a pause. Take a pause.
Avoid collusion’s silence, the unspoken lie. For truth brings clarity, and love lifts the sky.
Take a pause. Take a pause. Take a pause.
Live fully in a cozy place, not struggling to wait in the hospital’s endless space.
Take a pause. Take a pause. Take a pause.
Be grateful for those guides with patience and tender care.
Take a pause. Take a pause. Take a pause.
Help the helpless without judgment. In this, true strength is found.
Take a pause. Take a pause. Take a pause.
Trust the journey is beautiful; filled with care and kindness, leading to peace.
Take a pause. Take a pause. Take a pause.
Nature offers solace and calmness; embrace warmth with open arms.
About the poet:
Ms. V. Nalini is a Consultant, formerly a caregiver, now a volunteer with a strong aspiration to serve those in need and ease their pain to the best of her abilities.
They say I fought a war…
I never went to one
Then who did?
They say I was in a battle,
I never wanted to be a part of,
Then who sent me to it?
They say I am a warrior,
I never chose to be one!
Then who am I?
I remain ME’..
Being diagnosed with cancer
Did not change my identity …
Can’t I just BE?
No battles, no wars…
the expectations to win,
Make the cancer journey more grim!
There is no ammo, there are no guns,
Some get a chance to live
Some none.
Let me stay with the truth,
To LIVE is everyone’s WILL,
Each tries their best,
sometimes, destiny in HIS hands rests.
Don’t call this journey a battle or a war,
I am not a warrior,
Just an ordinary human scared and scarred,
Don’t say I won or lost,
Cancer is a disease not a war!
About the poet:
Ms. Vandana Mahajan is a Palliative care counsellor at the Lung connect India foundation. She brings along with her, her lived experience of cancer. She firmly believes that CANCER IS NOT A WAR and that no one wins or loses! Her resolve is to change the rhetoric that cancer is a war.
They built their home with borrowed time,
Through storms that swore they’d fall.
Hand in hand, through fire and flood,
Together, they stood, rose and loved through all.
She dreamed of days filled with laughter bright,
A table full, a love-filled life secure.
She toiled and fought and made it real,
Until it all slipped, slow and unsure.
A shadow greying within her head,
A thief that whispered, soft but cruel.
For the love of his life, he sought the healers,
And begged the stars,
But fate was firm, their forever dream couldn’t rule.
He did not yield to sorrow’s pull,
Nor bowed before the hands of time.
If he could not hold her cure,
He’d cradle her in love sublime.
He filled her last days with softer light,
With songs she hummed when they were young.
He brought her flowers blooming by her death bed,
And told stories left yet to be sung.
He held her hands through the silent painful nights,
Through every tear, through every sigh.
For love is not just in the fight,
But in the grace of the final goodbye.
And when the end came, calm and near,
She smiled though her breath turned thin.
For love had lingered past the pain,
And in that, she lived her dream all over again.
About the poet:
Dr. Vandana Valluri is an Assistant Professor, Community Medicine, at the Andhra Medical College, Visakhapatnam. Dr. Valluri is a doctor hardened on the outside with the pain and suffering of the world, with the soft-hearted girl inside lingering on to the dreams with poetry and art.
Four days have passed since he occupied the room.
Two nights since his wish to vacate it with sedation.
Two knocks, you could hear my step.
The winter sun of Bangalore sneaks through the clouds, into the room.
Dark circles, watery reflections in their eyes,
their fatigued bodies scatter to the same three corners.
She no longer asks for the report.
“Hello, Vijay. Come, come,” says the uncle.
“Hello, sir,” I reply, turning to the others. “Hello. Hello.”
Polite smiles, silent nods.
“He was restless all night,” says a daughter.
So are their hearts,
but the thought is still and focused.
“Well, half his legs are outside the bed,” I say.
They gather a laugh.
“Yeah, these beds aren’t meant for someone 6 feet plus.”
“Clearly designed with the average Indian height in mind.”
“The soul is roaming in the room, here-there, not ready to leave yet,”
shrugs the uncle.
“How long do you think the insurance will take to clear?”
“Do you know any crematoriums nearby?”
“Give me a few minutes, sir. I’ll get back to you.”
Maps app, ‘crematoriums.’
“Sir, there’s one about 4.5 km away.”
“Will they take care of everything?”
“It says end-to-end service, so I hope so.”
“The charge is reasonable, 9-10k.”
“But the problem is their service is only 8 to 4.”
“We have a mortuary here, sir.”
“Oh, is it? Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
He holds my shoulder tight. “Right, Vijay, thanks a lot.”
Only when he turns do I see his teary, red eyes.
Meanwhile, our protagonist snores ever more loudly,
as sedation increases.
The candle burns on in their eyes.
About the poet:
Mr. Vijay C. is a Psycho-Oncologist at Aster Whitefield Hospital, Bengaluru. Mr. Vijay continually seeks authenticity in the existential sense through writing.