To the ever-patient observers of our efforts. An animated adaptation of a Polish futurist poem "Im" by Bruno Jasieński. An expression of artistic frustration and irritation with the audience, which we do not share, but were eager to explore in animated paper cut-outs. Created with a home-made drying-rack/mop-stick rig, lots of tears and bitten nails, and faith and support of many wonderfully crazy and creative people. Enjoy! Directed and written by Adelisa Pjanić and Kinga Peszko. Animated with the help of Julia Loftus and Connor Thouret. Narration by Connor Thouret and Piotr Glura. Special thanks to Connor McVay, Maggie Veneman, Gary Thompson, Stefan Goldstein and Simona Juskaite for the immense help with equipment, translation and little ant heads. ‘To them’ By Bruno Jasieński (trans. Kinga Peszko) To the insistent listeners of my poems. When I stop reciting, in the faint darkness of the room You’ll pour out like a wave, rushing to your coats. In a grey hat stretched out past your shoulders My croaked alto will follow your footsteps. You’ll go like ants, long black strings, Dragging behind you heavy pearls of words. Every one of you will drag something into his room, and they will sound again from the bookshelves. Husband and wife will leave, the rain will scar their faces, Their daily tract will lead them into the night, So that they can pray before bed and god-fearingly, Complete on their blessed bed, their national duty. And when in the city the lights will start to fade out first, The silence will spill, shimmering like a pond, They will repeat the poems to each other in bed, Shutting the balance of their daily worries. We’ll go home, each one his own way. You’ll go straight and I’ll go alone. Everyone will rub his eyes with a handkerchief long while seeing the white apple lamps in the orchards of streets. He’ll go to a dinner, but he won’t eat. Something inside will begin to complain and demand. Belching with vodka he will belch with poetry, Strong like alcohol and sharp like a fishbone. That I wanted to guide you toward the unknown lands, From the spring-board of caesuras launch whirlpools of euphoria, You all came here to see how I look, What tie I am wearing and what nose I face. I just stand quietly, listening to myself, Suddenly on the shrubs of rhymes jumps a weed of thought: What am I actually doing here among you, An ecstatic dancer on the trapezes of towns. I will better go into the evening, where the sleighs ring, Leading my soul like a dog on a chain, And I start reciting my last, most beautiful poem, To the frozen horses that drag your carriages.