I think that I was killed, I see, my eyes are closed,
I think that I was killed, I am timid and then...
Who am I to her? She was living in Paris,
And yesterday I learned: Paris isn’t the only one.

Such songs I sang to her about the Far North.
I thought: Soon we’ll be together, just me and her.
But I sang in vain about the neutral zone,
She didn’t care how beautiful the flowers were.

Then I sang some songs, I thought that she would love them:
About the distant south, and the one who was with her before,
But she didn’t mind me at all, she was in Paris,
And Marcel Marceau himself said something to her.

So I just quit my job though I was not permitted.
I began studying French, with conscience still in me,
But what is it with her! Right now she is in Warsaw;
Again we speak in different languages.

She’ll come and I will say to her something in Polish,
"Accept me as I am, I will sing no more songs."
But who am I to her? She’s already in Iran,
I understood: I would never catch up with her.

Today she might be here, tomorrow she’ll be in Oslo,
Yes, I’m in trouble, I’m miserable and lonesome.
Who was with her before, and one who will be after -
Let them try as hard, I’d rather wait for her.