I thought that the heart made of stone,
That it’s fully empty and dead:
Though fire in it had been thrown,
It’s not damaged or just upset.
And that’s right: it was not tormented,
If – painful, then only a bit,
But, yet, it is better to end it,
Put out, while you can do it…
The heart is in darkness entire,
I’ve known: the victory’s mine –
At last, we extinguished the fire…
And, yet, in a smoke I die.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem