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.
© Peter Struwwel. Translation, ?