I observed that her knuckles were raw
with the effort of knocking on doors.
And if they opened she'd have difficulty
passing through - the awkwardness
of easing in with her world intact.
More than once I implored her to give up.
But I admired my wife, in a way -
the single-mindedness, her fierce pursuit.
She worked attentively, whenever she could,
at her listening skills, honing them
by day and night
on the creaking of a far-off door.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem