Truth came one day in the form of a naked, black doll
I once possessed.
How I came by it, I can no longer recollect
Perhaps someone with intentions base
gave it to me
Or perhaps I found it abandoned and picked it up
but that it became an icon of Truth, of that
I am certain.
A tiny doll, it was, the size of my third finger
with an ebony polished face
and cheeks plump as an overripe mango.
Its tough bushy hair, indigo
fell like waves across its face.
Shame filled me when first I held the doll
in my hands
for I feared people would think me odd playing
with a naked, black doll.
So, under the bed, I flung the object of shame
And here, it laid for many years in the dusty
until while cleaning one day, I found it—
surprised, having forgotten of its existence
all these years.
The ebony face still shone brightly heedless
of the grime in which it laid;
and the hair willful
still played on the plump mango face.
"Sad beauty you are, " I thought this time as I
held it in my hand
But the shame I once felt was no longer there
replaced now by a compassion for the naked doll
Maybe, I can sew a beautiful dress to match
its tiny, befitting body
But No, on second thought I should leave it as it is
for in its nakedness, there is Truth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem