Tender Hands, Healing Hearts

In halls where shadows softly creep,

Where silence in the night does weep,

There walks a soul with gentle grace,

A healer donned in white embrace.

With tender hands and soothing voice,

A nurse emerges, hearts rejoice.

In quiet hours and frantic days,

She tends to wounds in myriad ways.

A guardian of the healing art,

She plays a role, a vital part.

With empathy, her lantern bright,

She navigates the darkest night.

In corridors of care, she's known,

A whispered comfort, not alone.

Her hands, a balm to pain's cruel sting,

A lullaby that angels sing.

Each patient's tale etched on her heart,

A symphony, a sacred art.

She tends to bodies, minds, and souls,

A serenade as life unfolds.

In fevers' dance and calm reprieves,

She walks the path where courage weaves.

Through highs and lows, a steadfast guide,

A beacon in the ebbing tide.

Her uniform, a cloak of grace,

A guardian in every space.

With stethoscope and caring eyes,

She sees beyond the frailties' guise.

In Florence's footsteps, she may tread,

A legacy, the healer's thread.

With Florence's lamp, she lights the way,

A modern Florence, every day.

So, here's to nurses, angels true,

Whose hearts are vast, compassion grew.

In every ward and clinic bright,

They weave a tapestry of light.