“Ukraine has not yet perished,” —
Girls in embroidered shirts sing.
She lives, sovereign.
The song under the flag will end,
The stage will empty,
The wreaths will come off.
They will merge with the crowd,
And will not even recall the Ukrainian word.

And there is no Ukraine,
For the occupier’s language is —
“Native and genuine, or more precisely yazyk.”
A change for the worse.
In Ukrainian
Not a single advisor,
They instruct in Russian,
And the people have grown used to it.

They DREAM of independence —
They die for it,
Yet through neglect of the language —
They lose it.