She was as pure as snow in winter. In the filth - the sables - run on it by right. But then her letter burns my hands - I learn the tormenting truth... I didnít know: that humility is only a mask And the masquerade ends now, - Yes, this time I endured a fiasco - Hoping, that was the last time. I thought: My days are counted, That bad blood had entered my veins, - I crushed the letter like the head of a snake - And through my fingers trickled the poison of unfaithfulness. I wonít know about suffering and agony, - The oncoming wind will wipe away my tears, Insult will not catch up with my horses, The blizzard will not cover my tracks. Hence, I leave behind me, Under this gray unsightly sky, The odour of violets, the nakedness of carnations And tears in a jumble with thawing snow. Moscow donít believe neither tears nor a drop of tear, I donít intend sobbing any more, - I hurry towards new duels - And, like always, intend to win!
© Elisabeth Jelinek. Translation, 2018