Będę o to Pana Boga pytać, On to wszystko zapisał, wszystko mnie opowie. - Adam Mickiewicz

In spring's own country, where the gardens blow,
You faded, tender rose! For hours now past,
Like butterflies departing, on you're cast
The worms of memories to work you woe.

Translation: Lithuania, my country! You are as good health;
How much one should prize you, he only can tell, Who has lost you...

Translation: A tyrant has arisen, Herod! Lord, the youth of Poland Is all delivered into Herod's hands. What do I see? Long snowy ways, with many crossroads, White roads that stretch through wastes too distant to descry! All running to the north, that far, far country, As rivers flow; [...]