The Tenth Net
The world was like a chained Prometheus. Each day bloody wounds were inflicted upon it, and why it hadn’t died yet even the gods did not know. As it tore at its chains, a knife was driven into its back, and the Cossacks were buried, and because of the hopelessness and the tears of orphans, mountainous graves were piled over them. The insurgents were asleep, Gonta slept too, torn to pieces by the rabid nobility, the last hetman of freedom was clanking his chains somewhere, while the Zaporozhian Cossacks, wiping away their blood, lay down their forelocked heads on the banks of the Danube. Ave, imperator, morituri te salutant!1 Morituri te salutant... The condemned salute you... Condemned to eternal slavery, to self‑degeneration! The noose of serfdom drew tighter and tighter ar
