On the festival of the Polish Army in Piłsudski Square he woke up close the lofty memories. Symmetrically to the Warden, looking with thought at his soldiers, stands a man in a well-tailored suit whose merit neither for independency nor for the army can be compared to the first. They share space distance. There are glorious victories and painful defeats engraved on the statue of the Unknown Soldier, but both were carried with a weapon in hand. The second character walks toward why? To a dreary block, commemorating the flower of the Polish political world, packed in heaven into 1 plane that fell into the dust from the top of the pathos with a torn wing. Towards a place that immediately became a field of scandalous, deep bruzda, which divided Poles for decades. And yet, the passenger lineup proved something else. Among them was Ryszard Kaczorowski, a symbol of joining emigration with the country. And it will always pulsate in the veins the thought that 1 command was adequate to save them all: dense fog, we turn around!
Yes, no 1 can change it, the brightness of the Square has been dimmed. Will memory fade in time and the tomb fade again?
