I guess that’s it for me - I blush and feel embarrassed;
I guess that’s it for me - I close my eyes, I see.
I’ll never match her now! She’s even been to Paris
And yesterday I learnt it’s not just there she’s been.

I sang a lot of songs about the far north for her;
I thought: "We’re getting close, I’m very nearly there."
I sang of no-man’s-land, but all I did was bore her;
About those lovely flowers she really doesn’t care.

I sang again and thought she’d surely understand this;
I sang about the south and him who she once knew.
But what am I to her? She’s even been to Paris;
Marcel Marceau himself said something to her too.

I left my factory, though grief ahead I foresaw,
And into dictionaries my heart and soul I flung;
But what’s all that to her? She’s upped and gone to Warsaw,
And she and I once more are speaking different tongues.

When she comes back I’ll say in Polish: "Prosze pani,
Just take me as I am - no singing, let’s agree!"
But what am I to her? She’s visiting Iran, she
Will always be, I know, one step ahead of me.

For if she’s here today, tomorrow she’s in Oslo;
I made a big mistake, how could I be so dumb?
I’d better let it rest and let them have their own go -
The one she once was with and he who’s yet to come.