In shadows deep wherein silence lies, Beneath the gaze of busy eyes, Where tiny creatures jump and flee, There works a soul the sector won`t see.
No roaring crowds, no golden light, No glory claimed, no reward in sight. With palms unseen and imaginative and prescient clear, He mends the injuries that disappear.
A scalpel carved from insect bone, He operates even as all alone. A flea's torn limb, a beetle's wing, To him, every life's a sacred thing.
He does now no longer shout or are searching for renown, He heals the sector from the underground. He sews what breaks and calms what bites, He works in corners, out of sight.
But oh, the grace inside his hand, The manner he enables them upward thrust and stand. For what's grand if now no longer the care To restore what is small whilst no one's there?
Perhaps he lives inside us all— The element that hears a soft, faint call. That bends to raise a soul in pain, That speaks in storms and now no longer in fame.
A whisper in a loud room, A quiet hand that clears the gloom, A soft act, a fact unsaid— The flea physician works wherein angels tread.
So in case you sense unseen, unknown, Repairing hearts without any to expose
Know this: your kindness, aleven though unheard, May heal the sector extra than a word.