Kad, lepojko mrachna, budesh u snu tvrdom,
kada stan ti bude samo jama shuplja,
A krevet grobnica gde se voda skuplja
ispod spomenika od mramora crnog,

kad ti stena stisne grudi pune straha,
i bok sto ga gipkim cini ljupki nehaj,
prekinuvshi ritam tvog srca i smeha,
tvojih zelja, tvoga trchanja bez daha...

''sto spoznala nisi, losa ljubavnice
Za cim mrtvi plachu''?

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When you're asleep, dear shadow-coloured wench,
Within a coal-black, marble monument:
When, for your room and mansion, you are pent
In a wet cellar and a hollow trench:


When the stone, pressing on your startled breast
And flanks in fluent suppleness competing,
Prevents your heart from wishing or from beating,
Your feet from racing on their reckless quest.


"What does it profit you, imperfect courtesan,
Not to have known why the dead weep?"