In the lap of green clothed bed,
Some screams, some waits to die.
Everyone clings to their loved ones,
With their strange oaths.
Some find their place to sleep,
Sans clothes, sans pillows.
Some wait at doors with tied hands,
And seeking God's mercies.
Tens and hundreds of pale hands,
Still are waving, hoping to live.
without footwares, nobody even cares,
Predisposing in blood banks with fears.
Some with pain, some with fear,
Everyone is like croaking soul.
The rooms with deep and secret disquiet,
Rule someone to birth, someone to death.
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