They seized hold of the height, like something of their own. Firing of mortars, heavy fire... And we all climbed up on it in crowds, Like to a buffet in a railway station.         And the cry "Hurrah" became torpid in the mouth, As we swallowed the bullets. Seven times we occupied this hill - Seven time we left it. And nobody wants the attack again, The earth is like burnt kasha... At the eighth time we get it for good - We get what’s ours, our vital interests! But one can go round the side of it, - And why do we cling to it?! But all the ways of fate obviously Cross at this height.        
© Elisabeth Jelinek. Translation, 2018