In quiet depths where breath should flow,
Lies a tale of lung's silent woe.
Atelectasis, a whispered sigh,
Where air sacs falter, gasping dry.
Obstructions block with stubborn might,
Foreign whispers dim the light.
Pressures mount, a crushing weight,
Lungs collapse, in desperate state.
Surfactant, a gentle plea,
Alveoli cry to breathe free.
Yet in the wake of surgery's blade,
Shallow breaths, pain's cruel tirade.
Chest walls twist, in curving bend,
Restricting life that they portend.
Symptoms whisper, a silent chord,
Coughs and pain, a low oxygen sword.
Diagnosis, a searching gaze,
X-rays speak in shaded haze.
Bronchoscope, a journey deep,
To where airways tremble and sleep.
Treatment sings a hopeful tune,
Removing blocks beneath the moon.
Physio's touch, a rhythmic dance,
Breath exercises, a second chance.
Ventilation's mechanical sigh,
Bronchodilators, to clear the sky.
Infections fought with antibiotic might,
To shield from pneumonia's blight.
Early sights, a vigilant friend,
To ward off ills that could descend.
In this dance of breath and air,
Atelectasis, we dare repair.
