There was once a village where every house had two doors.
The front door was wide, always open,
and neighbors admired how clean it was.
But the second door was narrow, hidden at the back,
and no visitor was ever allowed to enter.
Behind those hidden doors,
each family kept what they could not carry to the market:
a pot of ashes, a broken tool, a secret hunger.
Some rooms smelled of smoke, others of rot,
yet from the street, all roofs gleamed the same.
Travelers passing by would praise the village, saying,
"Here lives a righteous people, untouched by weakness."
And the villagers smiled,
though in their hearts they knew
that no house is free of the second door.
So it is with men and women:
we polish the parts that can be seen,
but keep hidden the rooms where we wrestle.
We speak loudly of our strengths,
but the whispers of our failures
are trapped inside walls no one visits.
And perhaps the true mystery is not the sin itself,
but the silence that guards it.
Not the hidden room, but the fear of opening it.
Why I Wrote This Poem
I wrote The Mystery of Secret Sins because I believe every person carries two selves: the one the world sees, and the one that wrestles in silence. This parable is my way of showing that no life is without a hidden door. We all struggle, we all stumble, yet we often hide the very truths that could make us more human