Szad Akrobata - Nie wiesz komu depczesz kwiaty

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You don't know whose flowers you're trampling...
Szad Acrobat... And let the bullets search for me...
2013...

Yours and mine, these two worlds,
you don't know whose flowers you're trampling.
I sail with full sails,
you search like a sailor for maps.
Have you lost yourself? Did you fall?
Do you already know how much you'll sell on this?
Tear your head out of the vise,
when I turn your house into a cemetery.
They paint a landscape of cannons,
I assemble scaffolding, tripods,
while you run after your tail,
thinking "fuck, where's my stick?".
I have a touch like a drug,
with which I strip them of rags.
When they invade my gardens,
and they have paws like a coal miner,
and they have shoes like a coal miner,
they think they can take shortcuts.
They trample on geraniums,
they exhibit them for the trial,
if they go far away, to the mallows,
they will walk all the way to Calcutta,
they will twist into hybrid roses,
I keep their wires in my hands.
I have each of them here as a daughter,
I planted the seeds in the ground myself,
walking through nasturtiums,
they will feel like a throat in their throat,
convulsions overflow,
for nasturtiums I have arsenic,
for iris and magnolia I'll turn them into Machiavellis.

I was born a misfit,
it boiled in the book.
Even as a baby,
my grandma braided wreaths for me.
Probably, I have her knack in my hand.
I'll cut here, twist there.
Welcome to my garden,
decorating flowers with meat.

I was born a misfit,
it boiled in the book.
Even as a baby,
my grandma braided wreaths for me.
Probably, I have her knack in my hand.
I'll cut here, twist there.
Welcome to my garden,
today Acrobat is a priest.

I like the palette of shades in the dominant green.
My work blossoms from the ground,
from its darkness and stones.
About them I can write poems,
and about fools I write lamentation.
Fools, ironically,
first go to the chrysanthemums.
Carefree about reflection, living divine,
once they find it, they'll feel the flower not sleeping,
like the rotten smell of mold.
They ignored the path's trail,
they won't get out where they entered.
Through the cemetery's procession path,
the bells of freesias will ring for them.
I have a secret corner in the garden,
where there are fragrance-free maurees and purple verbenas,
in the lap of free nature.
I take their homeless souls,
on semi-conscious journeys,
somewhere in the sound-absorbing underground,
plucking defenseless strings.
And when in the evening possession,
I wipe my shoes with memories,
my movements are dignified,
precise and calm.
I wash my hands, looking in my thoughts,
at crocuses and begonias.
I am ready, when temptation comes after me again.

I was born a misfit,
it boiled in the book.
Even as a baby,
my grandma braided wreaths for me.
Probably, I have her knack in my hand.
I'll cut here, twist there.
Welcome to my garden,
decorating flowers with meat.

I was born a misfit,
it boiled in the book.
Even as a baby,
my grandma braided wreaths for me.
Probably, I have her knack in my hand.
I'll cut here, twist there.
Welcome to my garden,
today Acrobat is a priest.

From K to RO, from B to A to T to A,
here like a tornado before work,
an interior decorator, my boy,
don't ignore this hail,
only Boss has 7 lives,
because I'm the son of blind luck,
today half of them will drink wax.
You don't understand?
These gardens are the work of my life.
They will die without me,
like without water, the sun and the moon.
Before I reach Golgotha,
before you start judging me,
don't you even think
about digging into my secrets.
I don't want to be among those workers,
that's the slave class.
I prefer when flowers smell.
I know I would go wild without it.
Their lazy aromas,
for Acrobat, it's a difference,
for you, it's just traces,
why do you put boundaries there.
I put pain where the windpipe is,
fuck that humanity.
You don't respect me?
Get used to it,
if I trampled on your child,
would you still be so nearsighted?
Would you go to extremes.
For me, that's why it's routine,
to walk the path with respect.

I was born a misfit,
it boiled in the book.
Even as a baby,
my grandma braided wreaths for me.
Probably, I have her knack in my hand.
I'll cut here, twist there.
Welcome to my garden,
decorating flowers with meat.

I was born a misfit,
it boiled in the book.
Even as a baby,
my grandma braided wreaths for me.
Probably, I have her knack in my hand.
I'll cut here, twist there.
Welcome to my garden,
today Acrobat is a priest.