I shut my eyes and see: I die, I know what fear is, I think for sure I’ve died of shyness as I moan: What can I be to her? For she has been to Paris, And yesterday I learned - she wasn’t there alone. What songs I sang to her, about Northern plains! I thought, a little more, and first names I will dare. But about the neutral zone I sang to her in vain. She doesn’t give a damn what flowers grow down there. I thought another song would stand a better chance, About the South, about "the one who’d been with her before"... What can I be to her? She’s been to Paris, France - Marcel Marceau himself would greet her at her door! I went and quit my job, although I should have been more steady... I sat at dictionaries hard, to be able to explain... But what can I be to her? She’s in Warsaw already - We’re speaking very different languages again. She’ll come, I’ll say in Polish, "Pani, please, I vow, Accept me as I am, and I won’t sing any more..." What does she care for me? To Iran she’s going now, And now I understand: I won’t be catching her. Today she’s here; tomorrow, Oslo’ll hear her laughter... Yes, I have been a fool; yes, trouble is my fate! "Who’d been with her before", and the one who will be after - Let them try their luck; I think I better wait.
© Tamara Vardomskaya. Translation, ?