"I Hate You" [!] A portrait of an adult Borris Iver Kortrevich   11th of Wzuvar und Byvca, 420 E.S.     Knife in my back, All eventually goes black, Crippled from the final smack, I hate you, I hate you.   Pain derived from a simple blow, The breaking of a tightly strung bow. Stress and hurt is all you sow. I hate you, I hate you.   Give me the salt, a rush of gloom Give me salt, I’ll pour it on the wound.