Syed Gillani

Jul 17, 2024 | medium.com | Syed Gillani

Poetry is the echo of vanishing meaning,a flicker in the fog, a shadow in the mist. Each word a breath, a heartbeat, a pulse of light in the dark. As the pen stops, meaning slips away,like smoke dissolving, like air whispering away. The end of a civilization, the silence after the song. Poetry is the phoenix, rising from ash,its flame a symbol, its flight a testament. Every verse a rebirth, a resurrection of thought. In the ink, worlds form and dissolve,meaning shifts, transforms, evanescent.

Jun 15, 2024 | medium.com | Syed Gillani

(The Arnolfini Portrait, Artist: Jan van Eyck, Year: 1434)(The Shrouded Evening)Somewhere the evening passed shrouded in thick fog,The night was endlessly long, all candles burned out and died,Lines remained, an uproar of a running and clamouring past. While listening and speaking, all eyes grew weary and dim,Beneath my room, the day and night pass,The underground train makes my heart pound in my temples,Like the earth, expanding, has begun to swallow the sky.

Apr 23, 2024 | jnis.bmj.com | Chun Shing Kwok |Syed Gillani |Navpreet K Bains |Camilo Gómez

AbstractBackground In 2018, the time window for mechanical thrombectomy eligibility in patients with acute ischemic stroke increased from within 6 hours to within 24 hours of symptom onset. The purpose of this study was to evaluate the effect of window expansion on procedural and hospital volumes and patient outcomes at a national level.

Feb 24, 2024 | medium.com | Syed Gillani

Night, for the poet, a chalice brimming with inked silence,A field where words sprout from the soil of solitude, reaching for the stars,An alchemist’s crucible, transmuting the leaden quiet into golden verses. Night, for the lover, a tapestry interwoven with sighs and longing,A river flowing beneath the moon, carrying messages of heartbeats,An embrace where time dissolves, leaving only the pulse of two souls entwined.

Feb 23, 2024 | medium.com | Syed Gillani

A Child, a cradle of boundless dreams and fresh tears, stirs, not in the womb of a mother, but in the throbbing pulse of a cosmic nebula. A Child emerges as a “laughter-dipped feather,” light and free, tickling the ribs of solemnity, coaxing a grin from the lips of life itself, while at times it transmutes into a “tear-soaked parchment”, raw and tender, chronicling the scripts of growing pains, the first echo of heartbreak.