translate this to Persian 

Ruth May, at five, only understands the things she can touch or can compare
to what she already knows. She calls spearmint gum “Experiment gum” and is
endearing in her lack of vocabulary.
When I am grown my mother will still have my shoes. She aims to turn
them into brown shiny metal and keep them on a table in Georgia with
my baby picture. She did it for all the others, even Adah and her one
foot’s no-count; it curls up on one side and makes the shoe wear out
funny. Even that bad sideways-worn-out shoe Mama saved, so she’ll
save mine.
The limitations of a child’s intelligence allow a certain innocent charm to
slip into Ruth May’s voice: lacking the word “bronze,” she manages, as best she
can, “brown shiny metal” for the baby shoes her mother has bronzed. Yet she is
more than a stereotype of the small child, and that shows through, too. She has a
kind of directness and bossiness that her sisters all acknowledge. It is Ruth May
who breaks the ice with the native children and organizes games and other forms
of play, and it is sometimes she who speaks the truths that make the others
uncomfortable, as when she remarks quite casually on their father’s violence.
These qualities of being forthright and determined come through in her narrative
not only with events but with her sometimes brutal honesty. She becomes the
spy, as it were, because her age renders her invisible. Comparing herself to the
deadly green mamba that can slither along tree branches and remain unseen, she
declares that she can go unnoticed and therefore remain out of sight when her
parents are having discussions that the other girls would be forbidden to hear.
These five voices, six actually, since a distinctly new one shows up at the
end of the novel, share experiences and traits yet remain highly differentiated as
speakers grow and mature. Kingsolver reminds us even without saying so
outright that we experience life subjectively, that people who live through the
same events under the same roof will still have individual responses and
recollections, will still be their own persons with their own outlooks. The
interplay of the storytelling voices is fascinating in this novel, which no one
character could possibly narrate on her own. Even collectively things are left
unsaid; not every perspective can be covered. One perspective that is,
significantly, not covered is the divine one, and for good reason. The godlike,
omniscient narrator would know too much, would reduce sympathy for the
individual suffering of the five females in the Price household, and would violate
the scale of the novel—for, even with all the vastness of the place and the
overwhelming scale of events, this is a profoundly human, private story.
Tragedies always are.
The voices we tend to notice are those attached to characters, often the big,
boisterous sorts like Bellow’s Augie March or Henderson. We remember Augie’s
brassiness, the enthusiasm and sadness of Kerouac’s Sal Paradise, the tightlipped control and irony of Hemingway’s Jake Barnes. Every novel, however, no
matter what the point of view, has a voice—at least one. Omniscience may be
the godlike perspective, but that doesn’t mean its voice is that of God. Here’s
one such example.