Maybe look in history to find Poland grandstanding and acting stupidly where reasonableness and honest desire to do right would have won the day. It seems people in government, harping on international rules based systems, have no qualms of violating the same rules based on melancholia of past greatness.

It is easy to forget that having administrative duties to a certain portion of land, does not mean you own it. It means you have a trust duty to perform. Poland violated that trust for it's own nationalistic ideas.

And of course there are outside forces that foment these grandstanding desires. That is what gives the shit end of the stick when it puts into motion a series of quite avoidable marches of folly.

Note here, I am not talking of Poles in general, but of your past a-hole governments harping of emotions of people to achieve certain goals. I see the same thing happen in my country. And all I can do is hope for the best, plan for the worst.

I read a poem once:

Angels must be confused by war. Both sides praying for protection, yet someone always gets hurt. Someone dies. Someone cries so deep they lose their watery state.

Angels must be confused by war. Who can they help? Who can they clarify? Whose mercy do they cast to the merciless? No modest scream can be heard. No stainless pain can be felt. All is clear to angels except in war.

When I awoke to this truth it was from a dream I had last night. I saw two angels conversing in a field of children's spirits rising like silver smoke. The angels were fighting among themselves about which side was right and which was wrong. Who started the conflict?

Suddenly, the angels stilled themselves like a stalled pendulum, and they shed their compassion to the rising smoke of souls who bore the watermark of war. They turned to me with those eyes from God's library, and all the pieces fallen were raised in unison, coupled like the breath of flames in a holy furnace.

Nothing in war comes to destruction, but the illusion of separateness. I heard this spoken so clearly I could only write it down like a forged signature. I remember the compassion, mountainous, proportioned for the universe. I think a tiny fleck still sticks to me like gossamer threads from a spider's web.

And now, when I think of war, I flick these threads to all the universe hoping they stick on others as they did me. Knitting angels and animals to the filamental grace of compassion. The reticulum of our skyward home.