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.
© Sophie Leane + Jonathan Lofts + Max Gill + Cecylia Grendowicz + Carmella Crinnion + Chiara Albertini. Translation, 2012