Original subtitles

Mysteries of an unknown time.

Within the three walls, where men did not penetrate, we were born.

Astarte, mother of the world, fountainhead of all the gods.

I will reveal it, but not that which I may not.

Circling the phallic shrine, 120 women run crying at they know not what.

The novices in the clothes of men, the rest in tunics already rent in two.

Fumes of fragrant essences, fumes of blazing torches floated over us.

Naked, I cried burning tears.

Every one of us at the feet of Berbère were bent on our backs.

And finally, when the act, religious, was consummated, and after we had

plunged the coloured phallus into the eternal triangle, then the mystery

began.

But I will speak of it no longer

Wherever rain falls throughout the world, the land turns green with

vegetation and rivers sparkle with clean transparency reflecting

the skies.

But in every large city of the world, there lies a devastated corner where the

rain falls on the people and they become grayer.

In New York, the largest city, the corner becomes a mile-long street

of devastated humans.

The wandering souls who live here desire nothing but the waters of

forgetfulness so that they can proceed unthinking to the

grave.

In the rain, a man not quite an empty shell, the rain still

bothers him a bit.

The thought of the approaching winter's cold still worries him.

The loneliness of this self-isolation still empties him,

and he feels an occasional desire for another human being

to share a part of his body. perverted life.

Hunger to him is nothing, but the hunger for others

still remains.

The world is made of man-made trash.

He seeks his own existence in the discards of others,

rarely finding anything.

Someone passed and lost his soul.

It oozes in the gutter.

Nothing is trite, while nothing is finally nothing.

Another derelict.

His mind festers with things unresolved.

On the spinning world he sits and sees an emptiness go round

and round.

He is surrounded by his books and very little else seeps past

the alcoholic filter.

A filter of truth, he says.

A filter of escape.

Forgetfulness, another way.

Forget the failure, the dead, the living.

Smiles and touching glances. Forget to touch it all.

Just read and look.

and look and fear and hate and sicken and sicken until the beautiful becomes

ugly and the ugly unspeakable. There they are,

outside his window, normal or not, there they are.

And every night he sees a girl, a girl who enters her own dim cell,

and all he sees is a solitary glimpse of her in her window.

This girl who has no lover, who has no friends, she is he after all,

and is alone.

Alone to do whatever she wants.

And he imagines it in all its ugliness.

She has no lover, and she says no man shall ever have her.

Her skin is made of man's disillusionment.

Her heart beats down my desires.

A body without heat, a life without breath.

In my soul's eye, I see her acts.

She too is drunk, encircled by an alcohol of lust.

I am drunk on wine.

on virtue, on poetry.

I am drunk on anything.

Real or unreal matters.

Thoughts fly, and she is mine.

I grow warm as she rides.

A thing ecstatic in and of itself.

A thing possessed of narcissistic, inwinding, keen intensity.

Looking inward to the void.

Pleasure finding nothing.

Feeling something, knowing nothing.

Twisting into discontent.

I am still in pain.

What can she wash away?

The grime and dirt of centuries.

Woman personifies my torments.

She cannot erase the pain that flesh has caused me.

She is a living tomb of flesh.

In her nothing will grow.

For she is dead.

I will place lilacs in her hair, and they will wither in the dank perfume of

her skin.

Abomination. The curse of all men.

Vicious harbinger of sorrow.

All your torments remain.

heals nothing.

Only dreams remain to bridge the chasm of mountainous ruin.

A liquor, sweeter than any alcohol, pervades my subconscious.

And I sleep, dreaming of mystic veils and cushions covering and uncovering the

glorious female flesh.

In my sleep, in my dreams, my dreams.

Dreams of poetry.

I rise and seek the Father, Son of eternal love.

In poetry.

The love of a woman is the most beautiful love that mortals can feel.

And you would think this true, Cleon.

If you possessed a truly voluptuous spirit, but you think only of yourself.

You wasted your nights loving the men who belittle us.

Look at them now.

They are ugly.

Compare their heads clipped oval with our boundless heads of hair.

Do you see our white breasts on their chest?

Alongside their narrow flanks, consider our luxurious haunches, a bed deep

and hollow for a lover.

And tell me, do they even wish to have lips supremely voluptuous as ours?

You are sick, Cleon, but you are a woman who can still fight.

Go to the house of young Styra.

Her cleft is as pink sun, and she will not refuse you the pleasure that she

herself delights in.

I threw myself into her arms, weeping, and for a long time she felt my warm

tears flow on her shoulder.

until my sadness let me speak.

Ah, I am only a child.

The young men will not look at me.

But when will I, like you, have the breasts of a young woman swelling my

dress and inviting kisses?

No eyes are interested if my tunic hangs so straight against my body.

No one picks up a flower that falls from my hair.

No one says it will kill him if my mouth were given to another.

She replied tenderly, Billetus, dear virgin, you wail like a cat at the moon

and upset yourself without any reason.

The most impatient girls are never chosen first.

She has gone out.

She is far from me, but I see her.

for all things in the room pertain to her, and I, like all the rest.

This bed still warm, over which I let my lips wander, is disordered with the

imprint of her form.

Upon this soft cushion is lain her little head, enveloped in its wealth of

hair.

This basin is that in which she hath bathed.

This comb has penetrated the knots of her tangled locks.

These slippers beg for her naked feet.

These pockets of gauze contained her breasts.

What I dare not touch is the mirror in which she gazed upon her bruises, and

where perhaps remains still the reflection of her moist lips.

Why should I paint my lips?

Why should I polish my nails?

Why should I perfume my hair?

Why redden my breasts if they will never entice her?

Why bathe my arms in milk if they will never embrace her?

How will I sleep?

How will I lie in my bed?

This evening my hand does not find her warm hand.

I do not dare anymore to return to my house and into my empty dreadful room.

I do not dare now to reopen my door.

I no longer dare even to open my eyes.

I am beautiful now, a long time.

But the day will come when I will no longer be a woman.

Then I will know torn memories, burning solitary desires, and tears falling

on my hands.

If life is a long dream, what good to resist it?

Now, four or five times in a night, I demand the delights of a lover.

And when my flanks are satisfied, I go to sleep wherever my body falls.

In the morning I open my eyelids and I shiver in my hair.

There is a dove on my windowsill.

I ask her what month it is.

She says it is the month of women in love.

And so this is the month the dove speaks truth.

So I throw up my two arms around my lover, and trembling wildly, I stretch

my still numb legs toward the foot of the bed.

Believe not that I have ever loved thee.

I have eaten thee as I would have right sick.

I have drank thee as I would drink hot water.

I have carried thee about me like a belt of skin.

I have amused myself with thy body, because thou hast short hair and breasts

upon thy chest, and nipples like two little dates.

Just as one must have water and fruit, a woman is also necessary.

But already I have forgotten thy name, thou who is passed between my arms like

the shadow of another adored one.

Between thy flesh and mine, a burning dream has possessed me.

I pressed thee upon me as though upon a wound, and I cried, Nasadika!

Nasadika!

Nasadika!

Fresh like flowers, O my breasts, how rich you are in voluptuousness.

My breasts in my hands, what lack you of softness, and of mellow warmth, and of

youthful perfume?

Already you are polished like the breasts of a statue, and hard like the

insensible marble.

In order that you may submit, I will cherish you the more, you that were

already loved.

Your sleek and rounder form is the honor of my brown body.

Whether I imprison you under a necklace of gold, or leave you free and naked,

You precede me with your splendor.

Be then happy this night.

My fingers toy with you in caresses.

You alone will know them until tomorrow morning.

For this night, Phyllidas.

as paid billeters.

I said,

no, no. I turned my face away.

The kiss did not cross my lips.

and passion did not enter my home place.

Now I am alone.

I look at the deserted place.

I clench my fists until they bleed.

And I stifle my thoughts in the pillow.

Thou thinkest thou lovest me no more, Teleoth, and since the month hath passed

thy night's at table, as if the fruits, the wines, the honey could make thee

forget my lips.

Thou thinkest that thou lovest me no more, poor fool.

Saying that, I untied my moist towel and rolled about his head.

He was still all warm with the heat of my body.

The perfume of my skin poured out of its fine meshes.

He breathed with long breath.

His eyes closed.

Then I felt that he had returned to me.

And even so clearly, his desires reawakened.

And he hit the knot.

But as a ruse, I knew how to resist.

No, my friend.

This night, Lysispis possesses me.

Adding as I fled, Ogremond of fruits and wine.

The little garden of Biletus has but one fake, but it is good.

A hand reaches across the void and lifts me bodily from the endless fields of

vibrant perfumes to bring me back to him, an angel from hell,

a twisted mental hunchback.

He hopes to lead me into his world of sunless days and down beneath black,

slimy rivers.

I see his face, the face of the ancient tribes, the face I hate.

In the gutter lies the dirt caked by sewerage.

In the sewerage, his face is reflected.

Beneath decaying trash, he and his bedfellows lie.

He is a friend after all.

His eyes, his face are vulgar, decayed with rotting desire.

But his bottle of holes riches, fragrant and odorless,

Sweet and eternally bitter.

I shall drink.

Neither brain nor senses shall grow soft.

My body's warmth I have reserved for Aphrodite's altar.

My body has been consecrated, and this defilement must now be avenged.

Dialobus, the skin, the phallic mace shall kill.

all that threatens to separate us, Aphrodite.

I comfortably again, in sleep, to things real and beautiful, to

things soft and flowing, to dreams of a goddess's love.

Antheus, young girl of Lydia, has seven veils upon her.

She loosens the first, and her black hair spreads around her.

The second, she slides across her mouth.

The third reveals her naked arms.

She separates the fourth veil from her breasts, and she is nude.

The fifth veil disappears.

The sixth is drawn across her shoulders.

But the last gossamer whispers.

She leaves breasts tightly in her.

Saying, where are my roses?

Where are my perfume violets?

Where are my tufts of parsley?

Here are my roses.

Here are my perfume violets.

Here are my beauties.

Why am I become lesbian, O Biletus, thou ask me?

But what player of the flute is not a lesbian in some degree?

I am poor.

I have no bed.

And I lie with her who wishes me.

And I thank her with that which I have.

When we are small, we already dance naked. And what dances, thou knowest, my

dear one.

Twelve desires of Aphrodite.

We look upon each other. We compare the beauty of our nakedness.

And we find it beautiful.

During the long night, we are warmed by the pleasure of the looker's arms.

But our ardor is not faint.

And so strongly do we feel it, that sometimes behind the doors, one of

us may embrace a companion who can sense.

How do we make love with a man who is rude to us?

He takes us as he would take a woman and leaves us before the orgasm.

Thou that art a woman and knowest what I mean, thou canst take it as for

thyself.

My hair is black, the length of my back and my buttocks small

and round.

My tunic is of white wool, my browned hips enclose the sun.

If I were to live in the city, I would have golden jewels and tunics of gold

and sandals of silver.

I look at my naked feet in their dusty shoes.

Sophists, come to me, poor darling.

Draw me back to your source.

Wash my feet in your hands.

and press olive over violets, perfuming them with the flowers.

I will perfume all my skin that I may attract lovers.

Upon my beautiful legs in a basin of silver, I will pour the

spikenard of Tarsos, the metatopian of Egypt.

Under my arms, crushed mint.

Upon my eyebrows and upon my eyes,

Marjolaine of Couz.

Slave, take down my hair and fill it with the smoke of incense.

Behold the old math of the mountains of Cyprus.

I will let it run between my breasts.

The liquor of roses which comes from phaseless shall embalm my neck and my

cheeks. And come, pour out upon my loins the irresistible

baccarat.

It is better for a courtesan that she should know the perfumes of Lydia than

the customs of Peloponnes.

Close softly thine arms around me like a girdle.

Oh, touch, touch my skin thus.

Neither water nor the breath of the south wind are softer than thy hand.

Today, dear me, little sister, it is thy turn.

Remember thou the endearments that I taught thee last night, and kneel thou

near me when fatigued.

Kneel thou in silence.

Thy lips descend upon my lips.

All thine undone hair follows them as a caress follows a kiss.

Thy locks glide upon my left breast.

They hide thine eyes.

Give me thy hand.

It is hot.

Press mine and leave it me.

Hands better than lips unite.

And their passion is equal by nothing.

Now, untie the ribbons and the hooks of your tunics.

Cast aside your sandals, the laces up your legs, and the bindings from your

breasts.

Wash the black from your eyes and the red from your lips.

Remove the powder from your shoulders.

and uncurl your hair into the water.

For I want you completely pure, naked as when you were born,

at the feet of your fertile mother lying before your virile father, so

chaste that my mere hand on yours will bring color to your lips, and that a

single word from me whispered under your ears

will cause your upturned eyes to move.

Oh, if I think of her, my throat becomes dry, my head swings,

my breasts harden, and I'm ill.

I tremble and cry.

If I see my heart stops, hands tremble, feet freeze, pale fire climbs my

cheeks, pain beats in my temples.

I touch her, I am mad.

Arms stiff and knees weakened.

I faint in front of her and I lay myself in bed as if I were about to die.

For everything she says to me, I am blessed.

The love of her is torture.

And the passerbyers can hear my cry.

One woman may robe herself in a tunic of white wool.

Another dress in a garment of silk and gold.

Another covers herself with flowers, with leaves and grapes.

As for me, I take no joy of life except when naked.

My lover takes me just as I am, without robes or jewels or sandals.

Behold me, Biletus, naked.

Alone.

My hair is black with its own blackness.

My lips are red with their own color.

My locks float about me free and round like feathers.

Take me as my mother made me in a night of love long past.

And if I please you thus, forget not to tell me.

My wondering hand upon her tunic sought to divine the naked body, which softly

bent like waves, or arching, stiffened itself with shivering of the skin.

With her eyes in delirium, she signs toward the bed.

We have not the right to indulge our love before the ceremony of...

Delicately, with one hand, she opened her blouse, then held up to me her warm,

sweet breath, as one would offer to the gods a pair of living turtledoves.

Love them well, she said to me.

I love them dearly.

They are my cherished ones, my tiny darling.

I amuse myself with them when I'm alone.

I play with them.

And I get pleasure from them.

I splash them with milk.

I sprinkle them with flowers.

My delicate hair drawing them is kind to their small tips.

I caress them in shivers.

I put them to bed in soft wool.

Since I shall never have children, you must nourish them, my love.

And since they are so far from my own mouth,

Give them kisses for me.

I would kiss the whole length of the rich black locks that grace thy

neck like wings.

Oh, sweet bird.

Oh, captured dove whose passion-filled heart beats under my hand.

I would take thy lips between mine own as a babe takes the breast of its

mother.

my kisses reach far and should satisfy thy love.

Lightly will I touch thy breasts and arms with my tongue and lips.

And behind thine ears and upon thy cheek, I will leave the marks of my

kisses. And while I kiss thee, my hands shall stray in mad delight over the

ivory nakedness of thy sensitive body, trembling under my love.

Listen, Masadika.

Hear the murmurings of my love in thine ear, like the wild humming of the sea.

Masadika, thy looks drive me mad.

I will close thy burning eyes with a kiss.

i gasped and seizing her hands i twisted them fiercely into the moist skin

beneath my left breast i rolled her head back and forth and her lips moved

without speaking

My excited heart, strong and violent, beat and beat against my breast, like a

satyr caught in brambles, writhing.

She said to me, your heart will make you ill.

Oh, now, Sadiqa, I replied, that is not a heart of a girl. This is a poor bird,

a dove that waves his feeble wings.

The heart of a woman is more terrible, like a patch of myrtle. It burns in

flames beneath the flower foam.

It is there that I am seized by voracious Aphrodite.

Beneath the gossamer sheet of wool we slept, she and I.

Our heads bent together as though we were one, and the flame illuminated the

sheet beneath us.

And I saw her desirable body in mysterious light.

We were as close as possible to one another, most free, most intimate,

and most naked.

We had loosened our hair to be even more unfettered.

And in the confinement of the bed, our two female odors mingled.

Two natural perfumes.

No one in the world, not even the lamp, saw us that night.

Which of us was loved?

She and I alone can tell.

And the men will never know.

Love me not with smiles or with lutes or with plaited flowers, but with thy

heart and with thy tears, even as I love thee with my sorrowing breast and

my moles.

When thy breasts alternate with my breasts, when I feel thy life touch my

life, when thy knees stand up behind me, then my panting mouth knows not more how

to join itself to thine.

See, the lamp has died down, and the darkness is upon us.

But I press thy moving body, and I hear thy perpetual plaint.

As we are lying, our eyes closed, great silence surrounds our

bed.

Unforgettable night of the summer.

She begins to speak.

Since you do not hear me,

ah, how I love you.

And she repeats my name.

Billet.

Billet.

And she touches my skin with the tips of her trembling fingers.

This mouth is mine and mine alone.

Is there one more beautiful in the world?

Oh, my dear one, my dear one.

These naked arms are mine.

This neck and this hair.

Patterns of reality have disappeared.

Thoughts of others are twisted, but his soul is cooled by virgin snows.

He sees himself as a lover bearing flowers to his love, the girl he

has watched so often through his window.

But he has changed her in his mind.

He sees her smiling at himself, a gentle man.

Now I come to you, my love.

I come across the labyrinth of time.

I come to bring you flowers for your hair.

I dream of Venus and of your vision.

And it becomes a reality.

Our flesh becomes one.

His twisted mind sees his loved one, sees her smile, and erases out the

horror of reality.

Your kisses and the way you curl Delicious and distracting girl Into

one's arms and round about Inextricably in and out Turning

luxuriously as twine To clasping tangles of the vine So loving

to be loved So gay and greedy for a holiday Strong to embrace and long to

kiss and strenuous for the sharper bliss, a little tossing sea of sighs

to the slow calm chills up your eyes.

And then, how prettily you sleep, you nestle close and let me keep my strained

fingers in the nest of your most comfortable breast.

And as I dream, lying awake, of sleep well wasted for your sake,

I feel the very pulse and heat of your young lifeblood beat and beat with mine.

And you are mine, my sweet.