The Eleventh Net
Gloomy old age crept up on Hryhoriy across the grey stubble of the years like a fox. The roads became longer, and the days shorter. The earth seemed to have swollen, stretched out. He walked and walked... He couldn’t reach his destination, retiring with the sun somewhere halfway, in the fields or in the forest, wondering what had happened to his feet and his heart. Ice was born only to melt... His mortal body was starting to break down. The spirit welled, strove forward, but the body – the body demanded peace. That eternal duel, the cold breath of death!
Hryhoriy had never felt so melancholy as this autumn. He sought solace in the Bible, the wise Hellenes, the sharp minds of the erudite French. However, nothing helped. In the three years since the destruction of the Sich
