When the morning mist of the Vistula River dissipates at the spires of the old city of Krakow, when the amber sunlight penetrates the canopy of the Bialowieza Forest, and when Chopin's nocturne reverberates at the dome of the Warsaw Uprising Museum, I stand on this land repeatedly beaten by fate, and what I see is not scars, but a rose that never withers. This is a land watered by suffering and nourished by courage, and it is an eternal beacon of the human spirit.
