In Spring of love and life, My Polish Rose,
You faded and forgot the joy of youth;
Bright butterfly, it brushed you, then left ruth
Of bitter memory that stings and glows.
O Stars! that seek a path my northland knows,
How dare you now on Poland shine forsooth,
When she who loved you and lent you her youth
Sleeps where beneath the wind the long grass blows?
Alone, My Polish Rose, I die, like you.
Beside your grave a while pray let me rest
With other wanderers at some grief’s behest.
The tongue of Poland by your grave rings true.
High-hearted, now a young boy past it goes,
Of you it is he sings, My Polish Rose.
Translated by Edna Worthley Underwood
W kraju wiosny pomiędzy rozkosznemi sady
Uwiędłaś młoda różo! bo przeszłości chwile,
Ulatując od ciebie jak złote motyle,
Rzuciły w głębi serca pamiątek owady.
Tam na północ ku Polsce świécą gwiazd gromady,
Dlaczegoż na téj drodze błyszczy się ich tyle?
Czy wzrok twój ognia pełen nim zgasnął w mogile,
Tam wiecznie lecąc jasne powypalał ślady?
Polko, i ja dni skończę w samotnéj żałobie;
Tu niech mi garstkę ziemi dłoń przyjazna rzuci.
Podróżni często przy twym rozmawiają grobie,
I mnie wtenczas dźwięk mowy rodzinnéj ocuci;
I wieszcz samotną piosnkę dumając o tobie,
Ujrzy bliską mogiłę, i dla mnie zanuci.
Below me half a world I see outspread;
Above, blue heaven; around, peaks of snow;
And yet the happy pulse of life is slow,
I dream of distant places, pleasures dead.
The woods of Lithuania I would tread
Where happy-throated birds sing songs I know;
Above the trembling marshland I would go
Where chill-winged curlews dip and call o’er head.
A tragic, lonely terror grips my heart,
A longing for some peaceful, gentle place,
And memories of youthful love I trace.
Unto my childhood home I long to start,
And yet if all the leaves my name could cry
She would not pause nor heed as she passed by.
Translated by Edna Worthley Underwood
U stóp moich kraina dostatków i krasy,
Nad głową niebo jasne, obok piękne lice;
Dlaczegoż stąd ucieka serce w okolice
Dalekie, i niestety! jeszcze dalsze czasy?
Litwo! piały mi wdzięczniéj twe szumiące lasy,
Niż słowiki Bajdaru, Salhiry dziewice;
I weselszy deptałem twoje trzęsawice,
Niż rubinowe morwy, złote ananasy.
Tak daleki! tak różna wabi mię ponęta;
Dlaczegoż roztargniony wzdycham bezustanku,
Do téj którą kochałem w dni moich poranku?
Ona w lubéj dziedzinie, która mi odjęta,
Gdzie jéj wszystko o wiernym powiada kochanku;
Depcąc świéże me ślady czyż o mnie pamięta?
Trembling the Muslim comes to kiss the foot of your crags,
Mast on Crimea’s raft, towering Chatir Dah!
Minaret of the World! Mightiest Padishah Of Mountains!
From the plain Fugitive into the Clouds!
As great Gabriel once stood over portals of Eden,
You at Heaven’s Gate watch, wrapped in your forest cloak,
And, in turban of clouds with lightning flashes bespangled,
On your forehead you wear janissaries of dread.
Hot sun may roast our limbs, mountain mists blind our eyes,
Locusts may eat our grain, infidels burn our homes,
You, Chatir Dah, would still, unmindful of man’s fate,
Rise between earth and sky, Dragoman of Creation;
Far spreads the plain at your feet, home of men and of thunder,
But you can only hear what God to nature speaks.
Translated by John Saly
Drżąc muślemin całuje stopy twéj opoki,
Maszcie Krymskiego statku, wieki Czatyrdachu!
O minarecie świata! o gór padyszachu!
Ty nad skały poziomu uciekłszy w obłoki,
Siedzisz sobie pod bramą niebios, jak wysoki
Gabryel pilnujący edeńskiego gmachu.
Ciemny las twoim płaszczem, a janczary strachu
Twój turban z chmur haftują błyskawic potoki.
Nam czy slońce dopieka, czyli mgła ocienia,
Czy sarańcza plon zetnie, czy gaur pali domy;
Czatyrdachu, ty zawsze głuchy, nieruchomy,
Między światem i niebem jak drogman stworzenia,
Podesławszy pod nogi ziemie, ludzi, gromy,
Słuchasz tylko, co mówi Bóg do przyrodzenia.
Poles in and Turks greeted each other warmly as the priest at the small church in Polonezkí¶y, a village on Istanbul’s Asian outskirts settled by Polish emigrants in the 19th century, invited worshippers to exchange the peace during the All Saints’ Day mass on Nov. 1.
Muslim Turks participating in a Christian ritual was —normal for Polonezkí¶y,— an elderly inhabitant of the town said. The priest conducted the mass in both Polish and Turkish so that everyone could participate. After the mass, the congregants commemorated the deceased at a nearby cemetery with flowers while the priest blessed the gravestones with holy water, just as he would in Poland.
The cemetery reflects the story of Polonezkí¶y. The majority of the oldest graves belong to Polish soldiers, combatants in many national uprisings during the 19th century. The Ottoman state was the only one in Europe that did not recognize Russian, Prussian and Austrian’s late-18th century partitions of Poland.
In 1841, Duke Adam Czartoryski sent emissary Michał Czajkowski from Paris to Istanbul to negotiate the establishment of a Polish colony there. One year later, Sultan Abdí¼lmecid I granted Istanbul’s Polish mission the right to take land from the Lazarite Order and establish a semi-autonomous Polish settlement, Adampol, named after Czartoryski.
—Thank the Lord, who gave us this land where we can pray for Poland and talk about Poland in Polish —“ let’s pray and act righteously and God will return us to our Motherland,— Czajkowski, also known as Mehmet Sadık PaŁŸa after he converted to Islam and served in the Ottoman army, said in a letter during the initial settlement period.
Speaking Polish in Poland was forbidden under Prussian and Russian rule, but Adampol was a safe haven for Polish patriots. Poles not only found refuge in the Sultan’s land, but also fought on the side of the Ottomans in the Crimean War (1853-56) against the Russians.
By the end of the 19th century approximately 150 Poles lived in the village. Even in 1918 after Poland finally re-gained its independence, the Poles in Adampol remained in Turkey. Today, there are about 750 inhabitants in Polonezkí¶y, 90 of whom are of Polish origin.
—We are Turks with Polish origin,— said Antoni Dohoda, one of the elderly inhabitants. —I was a Turkish officer,— he said proudly. The Polish-Turkish friendship seen in Polonezkí¶y is indeed amazing: The villagers said it was natural to see Polish and Turkish flags flying side-by-side or flowers from the gendarmerie at Czartoryski’s monument.
On one side of Adam Mickiewicz St., named for a famous Polish writer who died in Istanbul in 1855, there is both a Catholic church and a mosque just a few meters away from each other. —We go to weddings together, funerals and we carry coffins for each other when needed,— said Dohoda, somewhat surprised at the question about religious issues.
Dohoda said he was not worried about the loss of Polish culture and language. Though there is now much intermarriage in the community, he said this was a worldwide trend. Whatever the case, religious and cultural life in the community remains strong —“ mass is held every Saturday evening, after which Sister Arleta leads a number of children in religious study. Also, the children prepare a nativity play for the birth of Jesus every Christmas.
Recently, land from the graves of Adam Czartoryski and Michał Czajkowski were brought to Polonezkí¶y and placed in symbolic graves in a ceremony attended by Polish President Lech Kaczyński. Indeed, the town often receives visits from Polish heads of state during their trips to Turkey, having hosted former presidents Lech Wałęsa and Aleksander Kwaśniewski in the past.
Polonezkí¶y keeps ties not only with Poland, where children go every year for holidays, but also with similar Polish migrant communities in Romania. In October, Polonezkí¶y welcomed 12 children and two teachers from Nowy Soloniec in Romania.
—We also want to establish connections with Polish towns in Georgia. The origins of these villages are the same —“ they were built by Polish patriots,— said Polonezkí¶y Mayor Daniel Ohotski. These meetings with other Polish children motivate interest in Polish culture and help to maintain the language, he said.
Polonezkí¶y is not just a heritage park for Polish culture, but also a beautiful destination for residents of Istanbul seeking a quiet place for a weekend getaway. Hotels and restaurants offering traditional Polish and Turkish food attract Istanbul clientele.
The fact that there is no public transportation connecting Polonezkí¶y to Istanbul helps to maintain the peacefulness of the village. Moreover, Ohotski is not very enthusiastic about the idea of having a public bus —“ —That would bring too many people. It is good the way it is now,— he said.
These castles heaped in shattered piles once graced
And guarded you, Crimea, thankless land!
Today like giant skulls set high they stand
And shelter reptiles, or men more debased.
Upon that tower a coat of arms is traced,
And letters, some dead hero’s name, whose hand
Scourged armies. Now he sleeps forgotten and
The grapevine holds him, like a worm, embraced.
Here Greeks have chiseled Attic ornament,
Italians cast the Mongols into chains
And pilgrims chanted slowly, Mecca bent:
Today the black-winged vulture only reigns
As in a city, dead and pestilent,
Where mourning banners flutter to the plains.
Te zamki, połamane zwaliska bez ładu,
Zdobiły cię i strzegły, o niewdzięczny Krymie!
Dzisiaj sterczą na górach jak czaszki olbrzymie,
W nich gad mieszka lub człowiek podlejszy od gadu.
Szczeblujmy na wieżycę! Szukam herbów śladu;
Jest i napis, tu może bohatera imię,
Co było wojsk postrachem, w zapomnieniu drzymie,
Obwinione jak robak liściem winogradu.
Tu Grek dłutował w murach ateńskie ozdoby,
Stąd Italczyk Mongołom narzucał żelaza
I mekkański przybylec nucił pieśń namaza.
Dziś sępy czarnym skrzydłem oblatują groby;
Jak w mieście, które całkiem wybije zaraza,
Wiecznie z baszt powiewają chorągwie żałoby.
Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855), Poland’s national poet, was one of the extraordinary personalities of the age. In chronicling the events of his life-his travels, numerous loves, a troubled marriage, years spent as a member of a heterodox religious sect, and friendships with such luminaries of the time as Aleksandr Pushkin, James Fenimore Cooper, George Sand, Giuseppe Mazzini, Margaret Fuller, and Aleksandr Herzen-Roman Koropeckyj draws a portrait of the Polish poet as a quintessential European Romantic.
Spanning five decades of one of the most turbulent periods in modern European history, Mickiewicz’s life and works at once reflected and articulated the cultural and political upheavals marking post-Napoleonic Europe. After a poetic debut in his native Lithuania that transformed the face of Polish literature, he spent five years of exile in Russia for engaging in Polish —patriotic— activity. Subsequently, his grand tour of Europe was interrupted by his country’s 1830 uprising against Russia; his failure to take part in it would haunt him for the rest of his life. For the next twenty years Mickiewicz shared the fate of other Polish émigrés in the West. It was here that he wrote Forefathers’ Eve, part 3 (1832) and Pan Tadeusz (1834), arguably the two most influential works of modern Polish literature. His reputation as his country’s most prominent poet secured him a position teaching Latin literature at the Academy of Lausanne and then the first chair of Slavic Literature at the Collège de France. In 1848 he organized a Polish legion in Italy and upon his return to Paris founded a radical French-language newspaper. His final days were devoted to forming a Polish legion in Istanbul.
This richly illustrated biography-the first scholarly biography of the poet to be published in English since 1911-draws extensively on diaries, memoirs, correspondence, and the poet’s literary texts to make sense of a life as sublime as it was tragic. It concludes with a description of the solemn transfer of Mickiewicz’s remains in 1890 from Paris to Cracow, where he was interred in the Royal Cathedral alongside Poland’s kings and military heroes.
Sails stripped, snapped the rudder, and the squalls moan,
The crew’s anxious voices, the pumps’ baleful sounds,
The last lines wrestled from the sailors hands;
With blood-red sunset, the last hope is gone.
Triumphant wind howled and on the high wave
Rising in tiers out of abyss deep,
Stepped the genius of death and walked to the ship
Like a broken bastion storming savage knave.
This one is all but dead, the other, his hands wringing,
That one in friend’s arms as they last embraced,
Some praying before death, to chase death away.
Aside, a lonely, silent traveler was thinking:
“Fortunate he, who is weak and dazed,
Who has someone to part with, or knows how to pray!”
Translated by Stefan Golston
Zdarto żagle, ster prysnął, ryk wód, szum zawiei,
Głosy trwożnej gromady, pomp złowieszcze jęki,
Ostatnie liny majtkom wyrwały się z ręki,
Słońce krwawo zachodzi, z nim reszta nadziei.
Wicher z tryumfem zawył. a na mokre góry
Wznoszące się piętrami z morskiego odmętu
Wstąpił genijusz śmierci i szedł do okrętu,
Jak żołnierz szturmujący w połamane mury.
Ci leżą na pół martwi, ów załamał dłonie,
Ten w objęcia przyjaciół żegnając się pada,
Ci modlą się przed śmiercią, aby śmierć odegnać.
Jeden podróżny śledział w milczeniu na stronie
I pomyślił: szczęśliwy, kto siły postrada,
Albo modlić się umie, lub ma z kim się żegnać.
…The Judge sat at the flank
of the Chamberlain’s family; amid this fussing
the girls were whispering to one another–
unknown to proper Polish etiquette!
Such chaotic scenes would surely bother
the Judge, who’d rail to show he was upset.
Various dishes were brought to this company
by servants balancing immense trays
painted with colorful flowers. Slowly,
they walked through steamy, aromatic haze
with tiny pots of coffee and Dresden
China, each cup with its own jug of cream.
For Poland has coffee like no other nation,
its preparation a custom held in esteem
in all respectable homes. Typically, a special
woman, the coffee-maker, has the chore
of going to the river barges to haggle
for the best beans. She alone knows the lore
for brewing such a drink that’s black as coal,
translucent as amber, and thick as honey.
And then the finest cream has its role
in the preparation. In the country
it is not difficult; after the pot
is set atop the fire, it’s off to the barn
to skim the milk. The richest of the lot
poured in each jug, shaped like a tiny urn.
The ladies sipped their drinks and then prepared,
by warming beer on the stove, a new dish,
mixing in cream and bits of floating curd.
The men picked at fatty smoked goose, fish,
sliced tongue and ham–all quite tasty
and home-made, smoked over juniper, fired
in the chimney; finally rashers, called zrazy.
Such were the breakfasts that the Judge required.
Translated from Polish by Leonard Kress
(watch especially from 4:26 on…)
…Podkomorstwo i Sędzia przy stole; a w kątku
Panny szeptały z sobą; nie było porządku,
Jaki się przy obiadach i wieczerzach chowa.
Była to w staropolskim domie moda nowa;
Przy śniadaniach pan Sędzia, choć nierad, pozwalał
Na taki nieporządek, lecz go nie pochwalał.
Palone ziarna kawy
Różne też były dla dam i mężczyzn potrawy:
Tu roznoszono tace z całą służbą kawy,
Tace ogromne, w kwiaty ślicznie malowane,
Na nich kurzące wonnie imbryki blaszane
I z porcelany saskiej złote filiżanki,
Przy każdej garnuszeczek mały do śmietanki.
Takiej kawy jak w Polszcze nie ma w żadnym kraju:
W Polszcze, w domu porządnym, z dawnego zwyczaju,
Jest do robienia kawy osobna niewiasta,
Nazywa się kawiarka; ta sprowadza z miasta
Lub z wicin bierze ziarna w najlepszym gatunku,
I zna tajne sposoby gotowania trunku,
Który ma czarność węgla, przejrzystość bursztynu,
Zapach moki i gęstość miodowego płynu.
Wiadomo, czym dla kawy jest dobra śmietana;
Na wsi nie trudno o nię: bo kawiarka z rana,
Przystawiwszy imbryki, odwiedza mleczarnie
I sama lekko świeży nabiału kwiat garnie
Do każdej filiżanki w osobny garnuszek,
Aby każdą z nich ubrać w osobny kożuszek.
Panie starsze już wcześniej wstawszy piły kawę,
Teraz drugą dla siebie zrobiły potrawę
Z gorącego, śmietaną bielonego piwa,
W którym twaróg gruzłami posiekany pływa.
Zaś dla mężczyzn więdliny leżą do wyboru:
Półgęski tłuste, kumpia, skrzydliki ozoru,
Wszystkie wyborne, wszystkie sposobem domowym
Uwędzone w kominie dymem jałowcowym;
W końcu, wniesiono zrazy na ostatnie danie:
Takie bywało w domu Sędziego śniadanie.
With his three mighty sons, tall as Ledwin’s were once,
To the court-yard old Budrys advances;
“Your best steeds forth lead ye, to saddle them speed ye,
And sharpen your swords and your lances.
For in Wilna I’ve vow’d, that three trumpeters loud
I’d despatch unto lands of like number,
To make Russ Olgierd vapour, and Pole Skirgiel caper,
And to rouse German Kiestut from slumber.
Hie away safe and sound, serve your dear native ground;
May the High Gods Litewskian defend ye!
Though at home I must tarry, my counsel forth carry:
Ye are three, and three ways ye must wend ye.
Unto Olgierd’s Russ plain one of ye must amain,
To where Ilmen and Novogrod tower;
There are sables for plunder, veils work’d to a wonder,
And of coin have the merchants a power.
Let another essay to prince Kiestut his way,
To whose crosletted doys bitter gruel!
There is amber like gravel, cloth worthy to travel,
And priests deck’d in diamond and jewel.
Unto Pole Skirgiel’s part let the third hero start,
There the dwellings but poorly are furnish’d;
So choose ye there rather, and bring to your father,
Keen sabres and bucklers high-burnish’d.
But bring home, above all, Laskian girls to our hall,
More sprightly than fawns in fine weather;
The hues of the morning their cheeks are adorning,
Their eyes are like stars of the ether.
Half a century ago, when my young blood did glow,
A wife from their region I bore me;
Death tore us asunder, yet ne’er I look yonder,
But memory straight brings her before me.”
Now advis’d them he hath, so he blesseth their path,
And away they high-spirited rattle;
Grim winter comes chiding–of them there’s no tiding;
Says Budrys: they’ve fallen in battle.
With an avalanche’s might to the gate spurs a knight,
And beneath his wide mantle he’s laden:
“Hast there Russian money–the roubles so bonny?”
“No, no! I’ve a Laskian maiden.”
Like an avalanche in might riding comes an arm’d knight,
And beneath his wide mantle he’s laden:
“From the German, brave fellow, bring’st amber so yellow?”
“No, no! here’s a Laskian maiden.”
Like an avalanche of snow the third up rideth now,
Nor has he, as it seemeth, been idle;
As the booty he showeth, old Budrys hallooeth
To bid guests for the brave triple bridal.
Translation from Targum —“ Or Metrical Translations From Thirty Languages And Dialects by George Borrow. Provided under a Project Gutenberg license.
Stary Budrys trzech synów, tęgich jak sam Litwinów,
Na dziedziniec przyzywa i rzecze:
“Wyprowadźcie rumaki i narządźcie kulbaki,
A wyostrzcie i groty, i miecze.
Bo mówiono mi w Wilnie, że otrąbią niemylnie
Trzy wyprawy na świata trzy strony:
Olgierd ruskie posady, Skirgiełł Lachy sąsiady,
A ksiądz Kiejstut napadnie Teutony.
Wyście krzepcy i zdrowi, jedzcie służyć krajowi,
Niech litewskie prowadzą was Bogi;
Tego roku nie jadę, lecz jadącym dam radę:
Trzej jesteście i macie trzy drogi.
Jeden z waszych biec musi za Olgierdem ku Rusi,
Ponad Ilmen, pod mur Nowogrodu;
Tam sobole ogony i srebrzyste zasłony,
I u kupców tam dziengi jak lodu.
Niech zaciągnie się drugi w księdza Kiejstuta cugi,
Niechaj tępi Krzyżaki psubraty;
Tam bursztynów jak piasku, sukna cudnego blasku
I kapłańskie w brylantach ornaty.
Za Skirgiełłem niech trzeci poza Niemen przeleci;
Nędzne znajdzie tam sprzęty domowe,
Ale za to wybierze dobre szable, puklerze
I innie stamtąd przywiezie synowę.
Bo nad wszystkich ziem branki milsze Laszki kochanki,
Wesolutkie jak młode koteczki,
Lice bielsze od mleka, z czarną rzęsą powieka,
Oczy błyszczą się jak dwie gwiazdeczki.
Stamtąd ja przed półwiekiem, gdym był młodym człowiekiem,
Laszkę sobie przywiozłem za żonę;
A choć ona już w grobie, jeszcze dotąd ją sobie
Przypominam, gdy spojrzę w tę stronę.
Taką dawszy przestrogę, błogosławił na drogę;
Oni wsiedli, broń wzięli, pobiegli.
Idzie jesień i zima, synów nié ma i nié ma,
Budrys myślał, że w boju polegli.
Po śnieżystej zamieci do wsi zbrojny mąż leci,
A pod burką wielkiego coś chowa.
“Ej, to kubeł, w tym kuble nowogrodzkie są ruble?”
– “Nie, mój ojcze, to Laszka synowa”.
Po śnieżystej zamieci do wsi zbrojny mąż leci,
A pod burką wielkiego coś chowa.
“Pewnie z Niemiec, mój synu, wieziesz kubeł bursztynu?”
– “Nie, mój ojcze, to Laszka synowa”.
Po śnieżystej zamieci do wsi jedzie mąż trzeci,
Burka pełna, zdobyczy tam wiele,
Lecz nim zdobycz pokazał, stary Budrys już kazał
Prosić gości na trzecie wesele.
While I don’t see you, I don’t shed a tear
I never lose my senses when you’re near,
But, with our meetings few and far between
There’s something missing, waiting to be seen.
Is there a name for what I’m thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?
As soon as we have said our last good-byes,
Your image never floats before my eyes;
But more than once, when you have been long gone,
I seemed to feel your presence linger on.
I wonder then what I’ve been thinking of.
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?
When I’m downcast, I never seek relief
By pouring out my heart in tales of grief;
Yet, as I wander aimlessly, once more
I somehow end up knocking at your door;
What brought me here? What am I thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?
I’d give my life to keep you sound and well,
To make you smile, I would descend to hell;
But though I’d climb the mountains, swim the seas
I do not look to be your health and peace:
Again I ask, what am I thinking of?
Are we just friends? or should I call this love?
And when you place your hand upon my palm,
I am enveloped in a blissful calm,
Prefiguring some final, gentle rest;
But still my heart beats loudly in my breast
As if to ask: what are you thinking of?
Are you two friends? or will you call this love?
Not bardic spirit seized my mortal tongue
When I thought of you and composed this song;
But still, I can’t help wondering sometimes:
Where did these notions come from, and these rhymes?
In heaven’s name, what I was dreaming of?
And what had inspired me? Friendship or love?
Translator unknown
Gdy cię nie widzę, nie wzdycham, nie płaczę,
Nie tracę zmysłów, kiedy cię zobaczę;
Jednakże gdy cię długo nie oglądam,
Czegoś mi braknie, kogoś widzieć żądam;
I tęskniąc sobie zadaję pytanie:
Czy to jest przyjaźń? czy to jest kochanie?
Gdy z oczu znikniesz, nie mogę ni razu
W myśli twojego odnowić obrazu?
Jednakże nieraz czuję mimo chęci,
Że on jest zawsze blisko mej pamięci.
I znowu sobie powtarzam pytanie:
Czy to jest przyjaźń? czy to jest kochanie?
Cierpiałem nieraz, nie myślałem wcale,
Abym przed tobą szedł wylewać żale;
Idąc bez celu, nie pilnując drogi,
Sam nie pojmuję, jak w twe zajdę progi;
I wchodząc sobie zadaję pytanie;
Co tu mię wiodło? przyjaźń czy kochanie?
Dla twego zdrowia życia bym nie skąpił,
Po twą spokojność do piekieł bym zstąpił;
Choć śmiałej żądzy nie ma w sercu mojem,
Bym był dla ciebie zdrowiem i pokojem.
I znowu sobie powtarzam pytanie:
Czy to jest przyjaźń? czy to jest kochanie?
Kiedy położysz rękę na me dłonie,
Luba mię jakaś spokojność owionie,
Zda się, że lekkim snem zakończę życie;
Lecz mnie przebudza żywsze serca bicie,
Które mi głośno zadaje pytanie:
Czy to jest przyjaźń? czyli też kochanie?
Kiedym dla ciebie tę piosenkę składał,
Wieszczy duch mymi ustami nie władał;
Pełen zdziwienia, sam się nie postrzegłem,
Skąd wziąłem myśli, jak na rymy wbiegłem;
I zapisałem na końcu pytanie:
Co mię natchnęło? przyjaźń czy kochanie?
By the end of the 19th century approximately 150 Poles lived in the village. Even in 1918 after Poland finally re-gained its independence, the Poles in Adampol remained in Turkey. Today, there are about 750 inhabitants in Polonezkí¶y, 90 of whom are of Polish origin.