Divine SPARIE

Dear brothers and sisters,

It has been a long time since I was here, and today, I come with words that carry the weight of unspoken emotions.

Some wounds are not meant to heal. They do not fade with time; instead, they settle deep within us, becoming a part of who we are. They breathe through our silences, echo in our memories, and walk beside us like shadows we cannot outrun.

This poem is for those who have felt this pain, for those who carry invisible scars, for those who understand that some pain is eternal—not as suffering, but as a quiet reminder of the battles we have fought.

I am sharing this poem in Hindi because some emotions, some depths of sorrow, can only be fully felt in the language they were born in. Yet, for those who may not understand it, I have also translated it—so that no one feels left behind, and everyone can connect to its essence.

कुछ ज़ख्म, भरने के लिए नहीं होते

कुछ ज़ख्म ऐसे होते हैं,
जिन्हें सीलने की कोशिश ही बेमानी लगती है।
जैसे कोई टूटी हुई धुन,
जो अधूरी ही खूबसूरत लगती हो।

चाहा बहुत कि सिल लूं उन्हें,
पर धागे हर बार उलझ जाते हैं,
मरहम लगाया, पर दर्द ने उसे भी ठुकरा दिया।
शायद कुछ घाव, भरने के लिए बने ही नहीं होते।

वो किसी भूले-बिसरे खत की तरह,
दराज में रखे रहते हैं—
पीले पड़ते हुए, पर कभी मिटते नहीं।
या किसी अधूरी कविता की तरह,
जिसका आखिरी मिसरा लिखा ही न गया हो।

रातों को जब खामोशी बोलती है,
वो ज़ख्म फिर से जाग जाते हैं,
रगों में, साँसों में, लफ्ज़ों में—
एक पुरानी कसक की तरह।

कोई पूछे तो कह दूँ,
“अब दर्द नहीं होता”
मगर कुछ ज़ख्म सिर्फ देखे जाते हैं,
महसूस किए जाते हैं,
पर कभी सिले नहीं जाते।

Translation…..

Some Wounds Are Not Meant to Heal

Some wounds are such,
That even the thought of sealing them feels meaningless.
Like a broken melody,
That feels more beautiful in its incompleteness.

I tried hard to stitch them shut,
But the threads kept tangling,
Applied balm, yet the pain refused to accept it.
Perhaps some wounds are never meant to heal.

They stay like forgotten letters,
Locked away in an old drawer—
Fading with time, yet never erased.
Or like an unfinished poem,
Whose last verse was never written.

At night, when silence speaks,
Those wounds awaken again,
Flowing through my veins, my breath, my words—
Like an old, lingering ache.

If someone asks, I smile and say,
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
But some wounds are only meant to be seen,
To be felt,
Yet never to be stitched shut.

May these words touch You, may it make you feel seen, and may it remind you that even in pain, there is poetry, and even in sorrow, there is beauty, there is a meaning…

With love and warmth,
Divinesparie