(note, please: this is my translation of my own poem written in Polish (originally titled Puszking, which was also a wordplay on the Polish equivalent of the English noun can))
I have come to bellow, o' tribunal of crows
For once more my fingertips came to seek the
Can
I have seen, befriended too many
I have tasted too many
Cans
I am burdened by the conception
That my guts might be burdened
They babbled and gossiped about salvation
On the downward escalator
Yet they failed to remember and remind of survival
I am bothered by the awareness that there yet lingers
Some hardly forgiveable idiocy. It somewhat
Irritates me not least because I am the only one to blame
It'd be grand, it'd be grand
With no further
Cans
Nor glasses of wine
In temperature sublime
To depart only when the bells toll
And not a moment sooner
For the holy tool foretold
That the pieces would once fit
Sooner or later, even sooner than later
And indeed, today there is less
Suffering than I saw the night before
(And in a week's time things could be grand!)
And now precisely, when the pieces have arrived at a ceasefire
My guts have grown bothered by the awareness
That there yet lingers some hardly forgiveable idiocy
And that their owner reforged the trio into a duo
For he wields significant intellect
He understands and he feels
But his goddamned willpower is lacking
And it is a nightmarish task to try to translate to the manager
Whether or not one is a translator
That on the bottom lane, facing oneself (twelve past twelve)
One has more often conceded than otherwise
...Unwise
For I've by now shown him
My few highs and many lows
(One of them this poem shows)
I've shown a multitude of
Cans
A trinity of hospital beds
Whilst he, unapologetically
He has shown he loves a tad, more than that he does not tolerate infidels, and the most he demands
And though I am poor in spirit, the Kingdom is not mine
Ergo I do not quite fit, like a puzzle-piece from another set
A blasphemer
And beyond the gates of heaven (at seven past seven)
I prefer the floor to a bed
For there is punishment of great dread
When you do not honor thy father in thy Father's basement
When you unswisely tread
I have shown my father that the body knows and feels
Yet it fails to turn its heels
So I suppose that my message goes as follows
On this rollercoaster
Since I put on the pretty glasses
It's been quite alright
O', how wasteful it would be
To return prematurely from the father's house
To the Father's house
Yet I promise you, o' tribunal
I swear on my mama
That I understand and feel
And that I shall change
For the foundation stands, and true salvation is in range
