The gossip spread around like wildfire:

tongues wagged about back-of-the-shop-based screwing;
people mentioned a child, a sobbing wife abandoned.
They cursed the vandal who had torn asunder
these strong and holy bonds. (That's me.) A good day
would see me classed as stinking whore, but there was worse.
From telephone calls late at night I learned
just what a wicked bitch I was.

That's the last time I ever go out with a florist.
For such a pairing there's no fertile soil.
No one will coo to me that I'm a rose, a dahlia:
my love will sprout in someone else's heart henceforth.

Why was I taken in by flowery words?!
My good name, such as it was, has gone to pot.

"Potted History"
Orsolya Karafiáth
1999
Translated by David Hill