I apologise to the ballerinas for his comments about your ‘knickers’, to the male dancers for his jealousy, to the signets for being ‘pretty’, not skilled. To the purists for his remarks that ‘most tunes weren’t popular’, for his elation at recognising ‘that one from the telly’. To the audiences at performances, for enduring his importunate cough. To the fractured toes and bleeding nails, for his claim that ballet isn’t dangerous. To the prima ballerina with the too loose hips, for his amusement that you’ll never give birth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem