A Poem That Helped Me Heal
I wanted to share this poem because it helped me take responsibility for my healing. Maybe it will speak to someone else too.
Only You by Faiz Ahmad Faiz
Translated from Urdu
If I knew, my beloved friend—
if I truly knew
that the weariness in your heart,
the sorrow in your eyes,
the burning in your chest
could be softened by my love,
lightened by my care—
If I were sure
that my words of comfort
were the medicine to awaken
your dimmed, desolate mind,
that the stains of humiliation
would lift from your brow,
that your ailing youth
could be restored—
Then I would keep you company, day and night.
At dusk, at dawn, I would stay by your side.
I would sing you gentle, tender songs—
songs of waterfalls, of spring and gardens,
songs of sunrise, moonlight, and distant stars.
I would tell you stories of beauty and love:
of proud, cold bodies that melt
under the warmth of loving hands,
of still, familiar faces
that bloom with sudden feeling,
of clear, radiant cheeks
flushed with the fire of wine,
of how the rose-bearing branch bends low
so the florist may pluck it,
and fill the night with fragrance.
I would sing for you.
I would sit and sing for you.
But my songs are not a cure.
They are not the surgeon’s scalpel—
they are the salve.
They are not the blade—
they are the balm.
And your sorrow—your torment—
cannot be healed without the blade.
I do not possess
that cruel and holy gift.
No one does.
No one—
but you do.
Only you. Only you.
Only You by Faiz Ahmad Faiz
Translated from Urdu
If I knew, my beloved friend—
if I truly knew
that the weariness in your heart,
the sorrow in your eyes,
the burning in your chest
could be softened by my love,
lightened by my care—
If I were sure
that my words of comfort
were the medicine to awaken
your dimmed, desolate mind,
that the stains of humiliation
would lift from your brow,
that your ailing youth
could be restored—
Then I would keep you company, day and night.
At dusk, at dawn, I would stay by your side.
I would sing you gentle, tender songs—
songs of waterfalls, of spring and gardens,
songs of sunrise, moonlight, and distant stars.
I would tell you stories of beauty and love:
of proud, cold bodies that melt
under the warmth of loving hands,
of still, familiar faces
that bloom with sudden feeling,
of clear, radiant cheeks
flushed with the fire of wine,
of how the rose-bearing branch bends low
so the florist may pluck it,
and fill the night with fragrance.
I would sing for you.
I would sit and sing for you.
But my songs are not a cure.
They are not the surgeon’s scalpel—
they are the salve.
They are not the blade—
they are the balm.
And your sorrow—your torment—
cannot be healed without the blade.
I do not possess
that cruel and holy gift.
No one does.
No one—
but you do.
Only you. Only you.
