Rebra, kičma—sve su kosti njene
Rebra, kičma—sve su kosti njene Bile slabe, građe oštre—krhke. Srži bjehu njima jadne, l'jene— Tanke bjehu, njene ruke prhke. Znajuć' sve, i opet videć' jade Duše, istog takvog čudnog bola, Dade sebi trunku lažne nade Dok je bila naga nasred stola. Jede sebe—sebe jošte jede, Nož joj klizi, preko bl'jede kože— Oči, prema gore prazno glede, Krv da teče, jedva kako može. Puls joj bješe slab, i tihog tona, Zatim ništa—bješe mrtva ona.
Ribs, spine—all her bones were weak and sharply built—fragile. The marrow in them was poor and lazy— her arms were thin and brittle. Knowing everything, yet seeing the sorrows of the soul, the same strange pain, she gave herself a bit of false hope while she was naked on the table.
Eating herself—still eating herself, the knife slides over her pale skin— eyes looking blankly upwards, blood barely flowing. Her pulse was weak and quiet, then nothing—she was dead.