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 icon,

And by the fire and smoke of our nights:

I will never come back to you.