You thought I was that type:
that you could forget me,
and that I`d plead and weep and throw myself
under the hooves of a bay mare,
or that I`d ask the sorcerers
for some magic potion made from roots
and send you a terrible gift:
my precious perfumed handkerchief.
Damn you! I will not grant
your cursed soul vicarious tears or a single glance.
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working ikon,
and by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.