Farewell letter Crimea Ukraine
You thought I was joking, or just offended? No, I'm probably just realized that love can not be, although for a long time tried to be helpful to you.
I warmed thee its sun, washed by the warm sea, and always very, very, waiting for a visit ...
You go in the house, without wiping his feet, pointed out, as I do, how to think, how to talk, what to do, to take one example, but the way I live - You're not interested. You just '23 kill me, you're killing my gardens, forests and parks, you spoiled my bank, you made me squeeze out of my backpacker last drop, because then, the end of the summer, I was getting no use to anyone, especially you.
And yet, I have suffered, I was hoping that someday ...
Did you know that I am dying, but instead oxygen mask, you grabbed me by the throat. But I'm not angry, I'm just leaving. I can not leave alone, because you can not look like you're killing my brothers ...
I'm a little otdyshites, quite a bit, and pick them all. Ukraine does not think badly of me, I loved you, but you did not want to become a mother, so I'm going home to his home.
It is not your. Crimea.
March 16 »
ANSWER Ukraine Crimea:
Frankly, I am disappointed by your letter. And today, I clearly understand that you, the Crimea, - the usual Narcissus.
You somehow decided that you are much more features than the Carpathians and Donbas, Sloboda, Pokut'a or Polesie. You are required to afford some special love, like a naughty young mother of many children hysteria and jealous of her other children - our brothers and sisters.
I gave my love to all equally, and I loved to love all the same, as a mother loves equally strong all his children.
When I gave you from the orphanage in 1954 - you were deserted, barren and ugly baby, all abandoned and useless.
First, you were betrayed in 1941 by order of then-your stepmother, having withdrawn troops in Taman, and from your cowardly left Sevastopol Black Sea Fleet and hid in Batumi until the end of the war. Then you have taken your people by shooting and evicted for many decades, and the proud descendants of the great Ottoman kings.
And though I was lying in ruins - I had built for you. I gave you my Dnieper water that you cultivate grapes and bread, I have to rebuild your cities and railways. I returned to the life of your port and the beach, in your sky again roared and rattled passenger aircraft wheel cars. And then I returned you to your people ... the people who lived there from the time of Byzantium gray.
And you all were not enough, you demanded more and more - not malnutrition, and on a whim.
I'm sorry if your bare feet soiled the carpet of your beauty, but they had the land. Our. I pulled the hand of Donbass and asked to build the mine, I'm kicking kneading cement Dnieper, I dug a career in Kirovograd, was carrying wood from Stanislaus, plowed land in Poltava, and you're admiring the sea and took his brothers and sisters in bed with Pantserny nets and beds with traces of love other people.
You're a slacker, my baby! You damn well do not learn! When the sausage was not in your store - it was not in my other lands ...
You require exclusivity - I agreed, and you became a republic. How do you dispose of this? I bought a new bed? No. Build new resorts? No. You gave away like a whore, allowing pick your beaches dirtied sea, you never learned how to make wine and your brandy can only poison the Colorado potato beetle.
You're a slacker, Crimea. In your summer restaurants I am not working you are, and my children from other lands and descendants of the Sultan, having regained their homeland. And you're just selling sea. You imagined that your charm puts you above the rest ...
And you decided to go back to his orphanage.
In the end, you are my adopted son.
But I'm glad that my children out of 25 you will not only passed the test of loyalty, even though they were starving as much as you.
And remember one thing: in your orphanage you never no one asks your opinion, it was full of handsome men, daffodils, and without you. And maybe someday, if you poumneesh suddenly, you realize the age-old truth that the real mother is not the one who gave birth, and that - that has grown up.
But I'll be very far away.
Bless you, Jesus and Allah.
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