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.