An Ode to the Lady of Florence
Updated: Dec 3, 2022
By Purwa Rojindar
IN the deep labyrinths of time,
Are lying many untold implausible yarns,
The tales that couldn't draw the shine
Hitherto can mull down all the charm.
This foray into the realm of an Isangoma
Her, who healed the 'hurt' of their trauma.
She was a nimrod on chase,
Who could put the Orion to shame.
Just that she hunted dank hearts
Rather than some big game.
To her these hearts poured their blues out,
Feeling her chalice and tinting her pout.
Scorns of bloody brooding brewing gush,
Held within the heart's entangled mush,
Pacifying, as bearing become light, the hearts would hush.
Charging their void with her elixir,
Cobbling the oozing gashes with phoenix tear.
She would leave for she had promises to keep
And, miles before she sleeps.
With every heart she conquered,
The warrior in her lacquered.
Fathoming the unfathomable,
yet bewildered at every treasure.
She oft wondered, what's unto her purpose,
Of the myriad radiant souls she rose.
The novel lives those hearts wore,
With now hale and robust core.
Gifted them hearts 'also' with the right to nurture,
The new hearts they would carve into her warriors.
The warriors who would champion her cause,
Uncaging their oppo's agonies and loss.
Thence, she would charge into the novel dominion,
Hunting for hearts, hurting and prone.
Euphoric at the times and arena bygone,
Her bossom content, she had killed two birds with one stone.
I dedicate this poem to Lady Florence Nightingale of Florence, the mother of modern nursing and medics/paramedics around the world. wrote this piece when Covid19 was wrecking havoc in her home Italy, her home was facing, her lessons what the entire health care system in the entire world needed the most. Not just her lessons, they need her unparalleled compassion, they need more warriors like
her. Now that the pandemic still looms over and still raging in some parts of the world this still stands true.
By Purwa Rojindar
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