We know various Polish cities. Krakow is guarded by three people's love, mounds-graves, surrounded by a ribbon of plant, with slender church towers, with the venerable walls of the Wawel castle and the Dragon's Lair, full of mysterious charm.
Lviv is spread over many hills, sinking in the green grass, with the chapels of the Kampian and Boim families leaning against the lofty cathedral, with the tearful emotion and pride of the Eaglets' mausoleum.
Warsaw, once upon a time the capital of Masovian princes, with the Old Town evoking memories of distant years, with Kanonia full of greenery and the flutter of dove's wings, with bathrooms, on which the silver swans swim, with the bustle of Belvedere once in the 1930s, and full of silence and majesty now.
Poznan, recalling the royal visit of Jagiełło, listening to Libelt's words about love of the homeland and to Cieszkowski's prayer of the Lord, boasting about Marcinkowski and guarding the ashes of the first rulers of our land in the cathedral - a city tough at work and relentless in striving.
Toruń with the leaning tower, once paying homage to the Jagiellonian, proud of the peace it contains, who returned it to Poland and from his son Copernicus, who stopped the sun.
Boat, city of work, overgrown with a forest of chimneys, factory fumes moss covered, in which comrade “Wiktor” published his "Robotnik".
Vilnius among green hills, Osta Brama famous and deeply loved by the Marshal, who entrusted his heart to this city on the outskirts of the Republic of Poland.
And Gdynia, which spreads more and more over the amber coast, listening to the murmur of the Baltic waves and to the ever-increasing whistling of ship sirens.
We know them all - they are alive in our thoughts - and we are full of the hearts of their pasts.
In the row of cities, about which we bow our heads respectfully, close to the heart and so famous, that every moment, closing his eyes, we can imagine the silhouettes of their soaring towers, Ginseng of roofs covering old church walls, ribbons of gray-blue rivers and stripes of aquamarine-gold trees overgrowing them, dark interiors of cathedrals, in which of the stone sarcophagi speak the greatness and power of the past, and from under the black marble, the Great Heart still beats with a loving rhythm, so far there is no place, in my mind and in my imagination, for the city, which were called New three hundred and fifty years ago, It has remained new for centuries and it has become a new one now - for Zamość.
We cannot find it in the imagination, so let us not close our eyes - let us look wide open, whether we reach the place by rail, or a car, or by bus, or finally on a stagecoach, for these also run on the roads leading to it.