Op-op, I jump from one tombstone to another. It’s spring and I’m springy, I’m in love, I passed all exams, the world’s smiling at me. Graves? Well, it’s Warsaw after all.
Recently I found a 1863 litograph by Felicien Rops. Its’ title (L’ordre règne à Varsovie) could be roughly translated as “All quiet in Warsaw”. Eighty years after Ross created it the same silence fell upon Warsaw.
Same old story, it happens every several dozen years. Stakes, baricades, graves, mass executions, pits filled with dead bodies. And all over it streets and …

I remember the times when an average foreigner would know only four words in Polish: papa, Walesa, Zibi and kurwa. I disdain all who would like to limit this list to only three words. Or one, for that matter.

“We waded too far, my dear friends. Horror, I cannot find better words for it! I wanted to call it bestiality, but no. We are a hell lot worse than beasts”.