Mon étoile [English translation]

Your pretty pink slippers don't seem to be tortured

By your grandiose movements, my ballet dancer,

Ballerina who toils on a shiny wooden floor

Which one pointe* may rupture to the point of chipping.,

When you are wrapped in white, blue, brown or pink

You make the tulle waltz like a blooming tulip

And those fabrics only have as much grace as that which they cling to

Sometimes, discovering your too-sweet breasts

I admit it, I imagine that in spite of Chagall,

In the dark, you guess that my loyal heart is there

And I dream of one of these evenings, on the Place of Vosges

We'll discuss Bejart de Petit, or something like that.

I imagine that, upon waking, when you stretch out your arm,

You seem to invite a ray of sunlight into your house

And that with one brush of a comb, you set everything in place

The chignon, the diadem which holds your mane of hair

Ha ha ha ha. . .

I imagine that it's hard, that it feels like work

In your sad physical injuries, or even mental ones

Rest in my arms, tell me if they're your size

My dancer, my star, become once again a little mouse

Against me