All language subtitles for Take.Me.Naked.1966.BluRay.1080p-eng

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,

one hundred twenty 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 her bier

were bent on our backs.

And finally when the act
religious was consummated,

and after we had plunged
the colored 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
on thinking 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 perverted life.

Hunger to him is nothing,

but the hunger for
others still remains.

Still remains.

For him, the world is
made of manmade 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.

A life in which nothing is
profound, nothing is trite,

or 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 at 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 windows.

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 by
desires, a body without heat,

a life without breath.

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

She too is drunk,
encircled by an alcoholic lust.

I am drunk on wine,
on virtue, on poetry.

I am drunk on anything.

Nothing else, real
or unreal matters,

thoughts fly, and she is mine.

I go lone as she writhes.

A thing ecstatic
in and of itself,

a thing possessed
of narcissistic,

in-winding, 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.

Time 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,
"Bilitis, 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

all tain 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 laying her little head

enveloped in its wealth of hair.

This basin is that in
which she had 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.

But what I dared not touch

is the mirror in which
she gazed upon her poses,

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?

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 a ripe fig.

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 has short hair
and breasts upon my 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 my name.

Thou has passed between my arms

like the shadow of
another adored one.

Between thy flesh and mine,

a burning dream
has possessed me.

I press thee upon me
as though upon a wound,

and I cry, "Masadika,

Masadika, Masadika."

Fresh like
flowers on my breasts.

How rich you are
in voluptuousness.

My breasts in my hands,
what lack you of softness,

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 proceed 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
Bilitis has paid Bilitis.

And I resisted.

I said "No, no." I
turned my face away.

The kiss did not cross my lips

and passion did not
enter my crossed legs.

Now I am alone.

I look at the deserted place.

I clench my fists
until they bleed,

and I stifle my
sobs in a pillow.

Thou thinks thou
lovest me no more, Taleo.

And since a month has
passed by nights 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 it about his head.

It 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 hid them not.

But as a ruse, I
knew how to resist.

"No, my friend.

This night, Lysispus
possesses me."

Adding as I fled, oh
gourmand of fruits and wines,

"The little garden of
Bilitis has but one fig,

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
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 a vulgar,
decayed with mud and desire,

but his bottle holds riches,
fragrant and odorless,

sweet and eternally bitter.

I shall drink.

Neither brain nor
senses shall grow soft.

My body's welfare have
reserved for Aphrodite's altar.

My body has been consecrated,

and this defilement
must now be avenged.

Thy alabaster skin, the
phallic mace shall kill.

I destroy all that threatens
to separate us, Aphrodite.

I come to thee again and sleep

to things real and beautiful,

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

To dreams of a goddess's love.

Antheius, 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 arm.

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 wisp

she leaves pressed tightly
in her female warmth.

Saying, "Where 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
beautiful parsley tufts."

"Why am I become lesbian?"
Oh, Bilitus, thou asked 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 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.

The 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 lookers-on,

but our ardor is not feigned.

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 was rude to us?

He takes us as he
would take a woman,

and leaves us before the orgasm.

Thou that art a woman
knows 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 brown 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.

Sapphos, 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 Tarsus,

and metatopian of Egypt.

Under my arms, crushed mint.

Upon my eyebrows and upon
my eyes, marjolaine of Kuus.

Slave, take down my hair

and fill it with
the smoke of incense.

Behold the old mass of
the mountains of Cyprus,

I will let it run
between my breasts.

The liquor of roses,
which comes from Vacelis

shall embalm my
neck and my cheeks,

and come, pour
out upon my loins,

the irresistible baccarus.

It's better for a courtesan

that she should know
the perfumes of Lydia

than the customs
of Peloponneses.

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 my hand.

Today, you 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 not.

Hands better than lips unite,

and their passion is
equaled by nothing.

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

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.

Ah, if I think of her,
my throat becomes dry,

my head swims,
my breasts harden,

and I'm ill.

I tremble and cry.

If I see her my heart stops,
hands tremble, feet freeze.

Pale fire climbs my cheeks.
Pain beats in my temples.

If I touch her I am mad,
arms stiff and knees weaken.

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 passer-byers
can hear my cries.

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 for naked.

My lover takes me just as I am

without robes or
jewels or sandals.

Behold me,
Bilitis. 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 up-wandering
hand upon her tunic

sought to divine the naked body

which is softly bent like waves.

Or arching, stiffened itself
with shiverings 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 a wedding.

Delicately with one hand,
she opened her blouse,

then held up to me
her warm sweet breasts

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 darlings.

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.

Sweet one, 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 my sensitive body

trembling under
the touch of my nails.

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 gasp, and seizing your
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 Masadika," 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 slipped.

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 moans.

When thy breasts
alternate with my breasts,

when I feel thy
life touch my life.

When thy knees
stand up behind me

and 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.

Oh how
I love you."

And she repeats my name,

"Bilitis, Bilitis."

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.

A 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 roundabout,

inextricably in and out,

turning luxuriously as twine

the clasping
tangles of the vine.

So loving to be loved, so gay
and greedy for our holiday,

strong to embrace
and long to kiss

and strenuous for
the sharper bliss.

A little tossing sea of sighs

to the slow calm
seals 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.