https://video.echelon.pl/videos/watch/8298f7c3-cd14-4a01-9b06-2672f7fac76d Controversial poem On the Independence of Ukraine by a Russian poet Joseph Brodsky. In the poem, Brodsky, in angry and insulting words expressed his feelings about Ukraine's declaration of independence in 1991, following collapse of the Soviet Union. He refers to Ukrainians as, among other things, khokhly (a Russian ethnic slur for Ukrainians), vertukhais (prison guards) and Cossacks. In the poem's final lines, he states that independence-minded Ukrainians will, on their deathbed, abandon their love of poet Taras Shevchenko (considered the father of Ukrainian literature), and instead embrace poet Alexander Pushkin (considered the father of Russian literature): With God, eagles, Cossacks, hetmans, and vertukhais! Only when it's your turn to die, you scoundrels, you'll be gasping, scratching the edge of the mattress, for lines by Alexander, not the nonsense of Taras! Publication of the poem in 1990's was controversial as it constituted a rare glimpse into deeply rooted Russian nationalism, xenophobia and contempt for anyone not wanting to be "friends" with them, really meaning a subjugation. Most Russian intellectuals understood how ugly the sentiment looks to the outside world, so they preferred not to demonstrate it publicly. Some even disputed Brodsky's authorship, until the above video was published. In 2014 however Russian media rediscovered this poem and started enthusiastically promoting it, abandoning and pretense of "friendship" and replacing it with good old neoimperial hostility. The poem was, of course, recalled and indulged by Russian media following the initial 2014 aggression on Ukraine. Full translation (automatic) of the lyrics: Dear Charles XII, the battle of Poltava, thank God, has been lost. As the lisping man said, ‘time will tell Kuzka's mother’, ruins, bones of posthumous joy with a taste of Ukraine. It is not green and blue, worn out by isotopes, but yellow and blue flying over Konotop, made of canvas, no doubt supplied by Canada. It may be without a cross, but the Ukrainians don't need one. Hey, you, towel, karbovanets, seeds in your palm! It is not for us, the Russians, to accuse them of treason. We ourselves lived for seventy years in Ryazan with tear-filled eyes, as if in Tarzan. Let us tell them, with a ringing mother's pause, slowly and sternly: Take your tablecloth, Ukrainians, and your towel, and be on your way! Go away from us in your sheepskin coats, without saying a word — in your uniforms, to the three-letter address, to all four sides. Let the Gans and the Poles now put you on all fours in the mud hut, you bastards. It's better to go into the noose together, choosing a path in the thicket, If you want to jump into the noose, do it together, choosing your path in the thicket, but it's sweeter to gnaw on a chicken from borscht alone. Farewell, Ukrainians, we've lived together long enough! Spit in the Dnieper, maybe it will roll back, proudly despising us, like a fast train, packed to the brim with leather corners and centuries-old resentment. Don't mention the devil. We don't want your bread, your sky, we'll choke on our bran and kolob. There's no need to spoil the blood, to tear your clothes on your chest. Love is over, if there ever was any. Why pick at torn roots with words? You were born of the earth, the soil, the black earth with podzol. Stop waving your rights around, sewing us this and that. This land gives you, kavuns, no peace. Oh, Levada steppe, kralya, bashtan, varenik! We lost more, probably — more people than money. We'll get by somehow. And as for the tears in our eyes — there's no decree for them, we'll have to wait until next time. God be with you, eagles, Cossacks, hetmans, guards! Only when your time comes to die, bulls, will you wheeze, scratching the edge of the mattress, lines from Alexander, not Taras's lies. Full transcription of the original text in Russian: Дорогой Карл XII, сражение под Полтавой, слава Богу, проиграно. Как говорил картавый, "время покажет Кузькину мать", руины, кости посмертной радости с привкусом Украины. То не зелено-квитный, траченный изотопом,-- жовто-блакытный реет над Конотопом, скроенный из холста, знать, припасла Канада. Даром что без креста, но хохлам не надо. Гой ты, рушник, карбованец, семечки в полной жмене! Не нам, кацапам, их обвинять в измене. Сами под образами семьдесят лет в Рязани с залитыми глазами жили, как при Тарзане. Скажем им, звонкой матерью паузы медля строго: скатертью вам, хохлы, и рушником дорога! Ступайте от нас в жупане, не говоря -- в мундире, по адресу на три буквы, на все четыре стороны. Пусть теперь в мазанке хором гансы с ляхами ставят вас на четыре кости, поганцы. Как в петлю лезть -- так сообща, путь выбирая в чаще, а курицу из борща грызть в одиночку слаще. Прощевайте, хохлы, пожили вместе -- хватит! Плюнуть, что ли, в Днипро, может, он вспять покатит, брезгуя гордо нами, как скорый, битком набитый кожаными углами и вековой обидой. Не поминайте лихом. Вашего хлеба, неба, нам, подавись мы жмыхом и колобом, не треба. Нечего портить кровь, рвать на груди одежду. Кончилась, знать, любовь, коль и была промежду. Что ковыряться зря в рваных корнях глаголом? Вас родила земля, грунт, чернозем с подзолом. Полно качать права, шить нам одно, другое. Это земля не дает вам, кавунам, покоя. Ой да Левада-степь, краля, баштан, вареник! Больше, поди, теряли -- больше людей, чем денег. Как-нибудь перебьемся. А что до слезы из глаза -- нет на нее указа, ждать до другого раза. С Богом, орлы, казаки, гетманы, вертухаи! Только когда придет и вам помирать, бугаи, будете вы хрипеть, царапая край матраса, строчки из Александра, а не брехню Тараса. 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