To Larisa Luzhina
I guess that’s it for me. Oh God, I feel embarrassed.
I guess that’s it for me. I close my eyes and dream...
She’s out of my league. She’s even been to Paris.
And yesterday I heard that’s not the only place she’s been.

What songs I sang to her, about the far-off North!
I thought: a little more of this, and we’re set fair.
But my serenade on No Man’s Land fell short:
She didn’t give a toss about the flowers there.

Then I sang once more, thinking she’d understand,
About the South and about her former beau;
But what am I to her! She’s been to Paris and
They say she once spoke with Marcel Marceau.

I gave up my factory, though I really flouted the law,
To swot over dictionaries, in hope and consternation;
But what does she care? She’s already in Warsaw,
And again we speak the tongues of different nations...

She’ll come back, I’ll say in Polish, “Please, madame,
Accept me as I am, I won’t sing any more.”
But what am I to her? She’s already in Iran,
Wherever I go, she’s been - and gone - before.

Today she’s here, tomorrow in Ankara;
I’ve really blown it, I’m way out of line.
Let her latest man friend and the next one after
Try their luck. I’d better bide my time.