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.