My mother, in a vitrine
Of infinite Babushka dolls,
Keeps a piece of the Berlin wall.
It didn't make sense
To the child of a masculine mind,
As a pebble can't resemble its whole.
And similarly,
To regard at a museum
Dust from the moon,
Is to imply that she is made
Of atoms.
But anyone who first looks at her face
Can see she has just two dimensions:
Round, and far away.
It is only in the careful watching
And recording of a subject
That such a mind learns also
That there is a smallest doll,
And an entire forgotten history,
In counting them.
And all this from seeing her face
Hide behind phases of shadow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Dutiful poem. Thanks for sharing.Please kindly check my poems HOPE and THE BEAUTY OF DEATH. Kingsley Egbukole.