The bees are tough, hard to break virgins.
Virgins, but different from us humans.
They have no ego. Hermaphrodites. Like the moon.
Butterflies. Phallic souls.
Soul phalluses in female bodies.
The daughter, daughters of the moon
allured me but only until
I figured them out.
As lovers.
I got tired of my ego.
And theirs too.
I'm bored of their services.
It wedges an obstacle between us. Neither
in nor out. In vain
I keep trying. I can break through
mine somehow.
But his? How?
Selfish, inspiring; but for what?
Is he like this by nature,
subservient, dependent?
On me? That's dispiriting.
He doesn't even suspect, that I depend on him.
I am the stronger, the unprotected.
Tough as a woman, austere.
Delicate as a man, fragile, gentle.
What would I like? I want him to
wrestle me gently to the floor,
penetrate me violently, savagely.
So I can become empty and neutral.
Impersonal, primarily a woman.
(Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A wonderful translation. Thanks