“Will you be sad?” she asks, “When I am gone?”
“Of course I will be sad, mais c’est la guerre,
my sweet and merciless damsel, passing fair,
you will be just a memory anon.
And one day I’ll be ambushed by a song,
while grocery shopping maybe, at the bar,
while listening to the radio in the car,
and cry for you, but not for very long.”

A glass of palinka, some bad tv.
My love in every tiny kiss I press
upon my darling’s white and exposed neck.
I’ll cry for you, my love, I’ll cry for me,
but never ever ask me to confess,
that when you leave I’ll be a shattered wreck.