I think that’s it for me. I close my eyes and I still see.
I think that’s it for me: I’m so embarrassed, and besides -
I am no match for her! She’s been to Paris.
And yesterday I’ve learned - not only there.

What songs I sang to her of the far-off North!
I thought: a little more, and we can talk as equals.
But my singing of the No Man’s Land was just in vain -
She could not care less about what flowers grow there.

So then I also sang of - thinking it would touch her more -
Of the South, and of the one who she’d been with before.
But does she care! She’s been to Paris.
Marseille Marceau himself had said things to her.

I left my factory, although I really had no right,
I’d studied dictionaries, brave and full of fear,
But does she care! She’s already in Warsaw.
And now she, again, speaks a foreign language.

She’d come - and I will say in Polish: "Prosze, pani,
Accept me as I am, I will not sing no more!"
But does she care! She’s in Iran -
I’ve realized - I’ll always be the one who’s chasing.

Because today she’s here, and tomorrow - in Oslo -
Yes, I have tripped, and I’m in trouble!
That who had been with her, and that who would be after -
Let them try. And I’ll just wait.