On the way I met not only once scoundrels, But for one I felt a special enthusiasm - He treacherously flung a handfull makhorka* in the face, A knife into the belly - and disappeared. I am healthy, I survived, I didnít believe the surgeon, Now and I believe revived him, One cannot find such hands but in Amercia - I wonít forget him. I set my dreams to apply the brakes, Waited for a meeting and came to that place. I really didnít fling makhorka in the eyes, But then I began to smoke. I never met with such pleasure Such unconcealed scoundrels. But now I am satisfied: oh, how he lay, No breath, amidst fire-wood!
© Elisabeth Jelinek. Translation, 2018