King Stakh's Wild Hunt

We surrounded each other with such a sea of kindness and attention, with such love, that even after seventy years I wonder at it as at a dream. Everywhere life was kind to us, even in Siberia where I found myself in 1902. She was more than just a wife, she was a friend until death.

We lived long and happily, as in the song:

While over the land
Sunshine did reign…

But even now I sometimes see in a dream the grey heather and the stunted grass of the waste land, and King Stach's Wild Hunt leaping, dashing through the marshes. The horses' bits do not tinkle, the silent horsemen are sitting up straight in their saddles. Their hair, their capes, their horses' manes are waving in the wind, and a lonely star is burning overhead.

King Stach's Wild Hunt is racing madly across the earth in terrifying silence.

I awaken and think that its time is not yet over, not as long as gloom and darkness and cold, social inequality and dark horror exist on earth. Across the land, half drowned in fog, still clashes The Wild Hunt.