Maybe I’ve died: I’ll shut my eyes - I’ll see,
Maybe I’ve died: I’ll wail, a later
How can I get to her? She was in Paris,
And yesterday I found out, she wasn’t by herself.

What songs I sang to her about the Far North.
I thought, just a little bit longer and we’ll 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 wasn’t right,
I sat up with the dictionary for my conscience and my fear,
But could she care? She’s already in Warsaw.
Again we’ll be speaking different tongues.

She’ll come - I’ll say in Polish: "Proshe pani".
Accept it such as it is, I won’t sing anymore.
But could she care? She’s already in Iran.
I understand that I couldn’t go after her, of course.

Evidentally she’s here today, while tomorrow she’ll be in Oslo
Yes, I’m in a jam, I’ve fallen onto hard times.
He who was with her before and the one who will be later,
Let them try. I’m better off waiting it out.