I was exasperated, digging through poorly printed texts of Shevchenko's poetry. The project the Professor had assigned was not only consuming all my time, but all my mental clarity. Each poem had a subliminal, satirical meaning to it, "The Reaper," "The Testament," "Fate," and the even more obviously prosed, "Calamity Again."
We started to see that the celebrated poet was writing against the new order of things, against the State and the Motherland; and he was building a following of learned men. Whispers of his discourse echoed off the alleys and mainways. One could see the discontentment building of the new merging with Russia.
It took all my wits to keep this information to myself. A Judas, so blatant and exposed, in our midst! In our country! Had the authorities not figured this out yet? If something wasn't done soon, this blessed art could raise a revolution that Ukraine could not afford to employ.
So the Professor and I sit at The Blue Scepter House day after day, murmuring in hushed voices when we find new material. Now that we possess this atrocious propaganda, what do we do with it?
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