At the Dialysis Center

(a quiet prayer)

I wait for my turn,
as the machine we dread hums on —
cold and lifeless,
yet the very thing
that keeps us clinging
to breath,
to time.

Around me sit the others —
some new, still trembling,
and the veterans,
those who have done this for years,
their arms marked by battles
fought in silence.

We are many.
The young, the old —
but mostly the frail.
The rich come too,
but more often,
it is the poor
who fill these chairs.

Hope here is thin —
a thread fraying slowly.
Like candles left too long to burn,
we flicker,
we fade.

Some pray still,
others no longer bother.
Some have accepted,
while many just wait —
not for healing,
but for an end,
for sleep,
for peace.

This is a kind of living death,
where every hour
feels borrowed
and heavy.

Eyes once full
now hollow with misery,
heads bowed not in reverence,
but exhaustion.

And yet,
there is love.
Relatives come,
gentle hands and quiet words,
doing all they can
to ease the sorrow.

In this bright room
where light feels harsh,
the cruel machine sings on.
It saves us —
but never frees us.

You feel the cold tunnel stretch,
long and without mercy.
And so I whisper:
God, if this is Your will,
let me not resist.

Teach me to bear this
without burdening those I hold dear.
Let my suffering
not dim their light.

If I must fade,
let it be
with dignity,
with grace,
like a candle —
still glowing
as it goes.