All reds come in the shape of lips. Even—s’il vous plaît—our shy little Mazovian cherries. So we shall write with a promiscuous tongue and instead of a period—make a lip print. At the railway station buffet in Radom we drink beer, and the world seen through a full mug is yellowed with the fright of Van Gogh, and a mug—mon Dieu!—also has no ear. Paris! Paris! Ai, dana, da dana!

We climb atop our dresser stands and dream of the avant-garde’s New Trick: The Straight Line, which is a stem, and at its end hangs a lip-colored cherry. Oh, sweet drop of Marseillaise, little planet of our malignancy, flow down, drop into our thin borschts!

We geometricians of form, puddle-jumpers into others’ imaginations, are waiting for you. And let the folk sing along: Paris! Paris! Ai dana, da dana!

(translated from the Polish by Jennifer Grotz and Piotr Sommer)