Balthus
There is no greater pleasure in life,
Katia, than spying on you
on Saturday afternoons
when solitary in your room you read
that book with the yellow cover.
With each page you turn
you slide like an angora cat
the sole of your feet on the carpet
while your legs going up
going down contracting stretching out
little by little draw back your skirt,
millimetre by millimetre,
dangerously drawing near to your sex,
to your secret bay, your magic potion,
the garden unknown even to you.
There is no other pleasure like this
in life, Katia, on Saturdays
when spying on you from behind a wall
we wait for the moment you recognise
that the age of innocence
has come to its end,
that all over your body a serpent
offers the most tempting of apples
and that you then decide to undress and discover
with your fingers and before our eyes
that hidden flame burning with desire
you defiantly look at with dread and pleasure
- the world that you now belong to.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem