…And The Final Net
All winter long and throughout spring Hryhoriy struggled with illness and tore at the snares of death. In the scanty cell to which the kind monk had brought him, he had often heard the rustle of wings and the chilling presence of the angel of death, Azrael. However, neither the winter nor the spring became the last in his life. The last ones, those which delineated the extent of his existence, did not come soon, but they came. There were still years of suffering ahead of him, new books written in solitude in apiaries, new translations of works by great wise men and countless discussions with the common folk and the high and mighty. Perceive yourself. Bless the Lord, that he had made the necessary easy, and the unnecessary difficult. There was a great brotherhood, a king
