I think that’s it for me. I close my eyes and I still see. I think that’s it for me: I’m so embarrassed, and besides - I am no match for her! She’s been to Paris. And yesterday I’ve learned - not only there. What songs I sang to her of the far-off North! I thought: a little more, and we can talk as equals. But my singing of the No Man’s Land was just in vain - She could not care less about what flowers grow there. So then I also sang of - thinking it would touch her more - Of the South, and of the one who she’d been with before. But does she care! She’s been to Paris. Marseille Marceau himself had said things to her. I left my factory, although I really had no right, I’d studied dictionaries, brave and full of fear, But does she care! She’s already in Warsaw. And now she, again, speaks a foreign language. She’d come - and I will say in Polish: "Prosze, pani, Accept me as I am, I will not sing no more!" But does she care! She’s in Iran - I’ve realized - I’ll always be the one who’s chasing. Because today she’s here, and tomorrow - in Oslo - Yes, I have tripped, and I’m in trouble! That who had been with her, and that who would be after - Let them try. And I’ll just wait.
© ?. Translation, 2013