They say that she is a beautiful dancer.
Her limbs follow the music.
Her heart pulses to the beat.
Satin-wrapped toes click
On a shimmering wood floor.
They all agree that her body
is just right for their art.
‘Be delicate with those graceful arms,
That diminishing waist.
You wouldn’t want to break her.’
A pinprick makes her insides bleed.
Each step reverberates.
Every time her heel touches the panel,
It eat, eat, eats away at it
Until she is nothing left
But dancing bones.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is great poem about beauty and fragility... one feels deeply about the predicament of the dancer! Is is the predicament of all arists, that life lurrs them to give all their best away until they are simply bones?