Maybe Iíve died: Iíll shut my eyes - Iíll see, Maybe Iíve died: Iíll wail, a later How can I get to her? She was in Paris, And yesterday I found out, she wasnít by herself. What songs I sang to her about the Far North. I thought, just a little bit longer and weíll be familiar. But I sang in vain about the neutral strip She could care less, what kind of flowers grow there. Then I sang some more, I thought this was closer to home: About the south and about the one who was with her before. But she could care less who was before me - she was in Paris, Marcel Marceaux himself talked about something with her. I quit my job at the factory, though it wasnít right, I sat up with the dictionary for my conscience and my fear, But could she care? Sheís already in Warsaw. Again weíll be speaking different tongues. Sheíll come - Iíll say in Polish: "Proshe pani". Accept it such as it is, I wonít sing anymore. But could she care? Sheís already in Iran. I understand that I couldnít go after her, of course. Evidentally sheís here today, while tomorrow sheíll be in Oslo Yes, Iím in a jam, Iíve fallen onto hard times. He who was with her before and the one who will be later, Let them try. Iím better off waiting it out.
© Peter Struwwel. Translation, ?