O healer, why are you stitching the wound of my chest with a needle? The thorn of grief inside my chest is itself acting like a needle.

The poet addresses his physician with poignant irony, asking why an ordinary needle is needed to stitch up his torn chest. The thorn of sorrow already embedded in his heart is piercing and sharp enough to act as a needle itself. It beautifully captures the paradox of love and grief—where the very instrument of agony is woven so deeply into one's being that external healing becomes pointless.