I guess that’s it for me - I blush and feel embarrassed; I guess that’s it for me - I close my eyes, I see. I’ll never match her now! She’s even been to Paris And yesterday I learnt it’s not just there she’s been. I sang a lot of songs about the far north for her; I thought: "We’re getting close, I’m very nearly there." I sang of no-man’s-land, but all I did was bore her; About those lovely flowers she really doesn’t care. I sang again and thought she’d surely understand this; I sang about the south and him who she once knew. But what am I to her? She’s even been to Paris; Marcel Marceau himself said something to her too. I left my factory, though grief ahead I foresaw, And into dictionaries my heart and soul I flung; But what’s all that to her? She’s upped and gone to Warsaw, And she and I once more are speaking different tongues. When she comes back I’ll say in Polish: "Prosze pani, Just take me as I am - no singing, let’s agree!" But what am I to her? She’s visiting Iran, she Will always be, I know, one step ahead of me. For if she’s here today, tomorrow she’s in Oslo; I made a big mistake, how could I be so dumb? I’d better let it rest and let them have their own go - The one she once was with and he who’s yet to come.
© Margaret & Stas Porokhnya. Translation, 2007