The poem
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.