Within the sterile rooms so white,
Where hope and pain do intertwine,
There stands a figure, calm and bright,
The doctor, with a heart so kind.

Through weary nights and endless days,
They hold the torch of life aloft,
With steady hands and gentle ways,
They mend the broken, soothe the soft.

In times of fear, in times of doubt,
Their presence is a beacon clear,
With every stitch, with every route,
They guide us through each shadowed year.

So here’s to those who heal and care,
Whose work is more than mere profession,
For in their hands, we find repair,
A testament to their compassion.