You lungs were filled with water.
I heard a voice through the radio.
We came and pushed the water out,
but your lungs wouldn't breathe.
We rushed to carry you inside.
And we closed the heavy doors.
The blood froze in your veins.
We stretched your body on the table,
and watched your system monitor.
We felt the pressure change.
"Speak to me," I said,
but you refused to breathe.
The sand was in your eyes, your mouth.
The sand was in your fists, your hair.
We found you clutching sand.
We tried to use machines to save you.
A surge ran through you body.
The metal pressed against your hands.