In marble halls where hope and dread are knit,
A sanctuary stands, where life's fierce war is fought;
A citadel of balm, with potions lit,
Where pain and panacea in a dance are caught.

The odor of chloride, a bitter bloom,
Hangs in the air, a somber litany;
Chambers resound with the sick's funereal gloom,
Yet in this keep, champions battle silently.

Physicians, clad in robes of learned hue,
With elixirs and steel, perform their art;
Their healing hands weave magic, true,
In a tapestry of life, rending death's tart.

This hallowed hall of malady and mirth,
A mirror of mankind's own fragile worth.