Toe after toe, a snowing flesh,
a gold of lemon, root and rind,
she sifts in sunlight down the stairs
with nothing on. Nor on her mind.
We spy beneath the banister
a constant thresh of thigh on thigh;
her lips imprint the swinging air
that parts to let her parts go by.
One-woman waterfall, she wears
her slow descent like a long cape
and pausing on the final stair,
collects her motions into shape.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sounds like a very famous painting. It is certainly a very imaginative piece. The last three lines are spectacular and beautifully apt. I've not seen any of your poems before but will be hunting for them after reading this one. A straight ten. Tom Billsborough