Cold autumn wind,
By rushing slow in the sky,
Seeing possibly white and red flags,
He fell in love with the view.
And riding so under the sky of Warsaw,
He wanted to get close to him,
To admire this view,
He was so surprised.
Our continuing patriotism,
So many emotions,
His most sincere awe was raised,
The cold wind warmed the delight.
In the mowing white and red flags
The autumn wind's entangled,
The beauty of them cannot be surprised,
The beauty of them moved to the depths.
And the wind between the flags inactive dancing,
Interesting looking around,
Delighted by the immaculate white and blood red,
It rose to the close roofs.
And slapping the old houses gently,
Where the communicative in the bricks is inactive sleeping,
He asked them in half a whisper,
Oh, specified a wonderful view the cause...
And told him old houses,
A steadfast and arrogant nation history,
His heroic, tragic history,
With so much pain and suffering.
And cold autumn wind,
In silence, he listened to her,
Like this peculiar day,
In his fleeting memory, he wanted to keep it.
And told him the Fathers of independency the monuments,
Of the oppressed Nation of unending will,
Despite all odds,
Simmering in generations after...
And the curious yet fleeting wind,
Interfering between the large march,
He looked into the hearts of arrogant Poles,
To guess their dreams.
By himself being invisible,
At the frontier of material and spiritual worlds
He saw these invisible bonds,
A nation that unites so proud.
And remaining faithful to nature to the forces,
By the laws of nature,
He intended to pay his humble tribute,
Great Polish patriots.
And flexing the earth gently,
He raised the golden autumn leaves,
Like erstwhile on battlefields,
Proud soldiers of the flag pounding.
And lifted with a violent blast,
Across squares and wide streets,
To dance in the air,
One by one, they broke off the ground,
And this spinning golden leaf dance,
To arrogant patriots he was a tribute,
To honor them well deserved,
A fair wind for them...
And the smiling faces of the children,
He's done it in autumn with blush,
To paint them with a brush,
The white-red flags were creaking,
But on the cheeks only painted,
When the night is gone,
Memorable Rills
They were forged in children's hearts...
And the wind... not cold anymore...
But a burning feeling unknown to him,
To himself this fall,
Love to the colors of these particular...
Not being able to personally participate in the large March of independency in Warsaw, although this modest patriotic poem by my author I would like to join spiritually with all his honourable participants...
