Young Cossack

Kазак Молодой

Anna Zworykina

"The steppe trembles and hard hooves knock,
a cavalry approaches on swift horses..."

Raw, brutal, and uncompromising, the sandy steppe wind hits you in the face as you spray it on.
The barren landscape blurs in the blessing afternoon sun.
Horse and rider are drenched in sweat.
Remnants of dried mud and dirt and splashes of blood cling to them.
The leather saddle on the wet horsehide and the cracking whip carry animalic and ancient, infinitely waxed leather aromas into the steppe wind; just like the steppe herb, which is already slightly smoking from the relentless heat.
Even the absinthe dangling from our saddlebag seems to be slowly evaporating.

"In the evening the drum calls us to dance,
the night is dreamless, short, and heavy..."

Darkness has already fallen when the flickering light of the creaking campfire appears in the distance.
The ever-thickening smoke nearly obscures our vision and makes breathing difficult.
Arrived.
The cups are apparently raised for the first time in the camp; the mood is lively.
It smells of all kinds of rotgut.
A huge cauldron of soup steams over the fire, and the scent of the collection of herbs and spices makes our hungry stomachs growl.

"Through our villages, the wailing women howl loudly,
the drums thud dully for the dance of death..."

Another long and battle-filled day comes to an end.
Satisfied by the hard-won victory and a finally filled stomach, having danced the last strength out of our bodies and fogged by schnapps and absinthe, we fall asleep on the ground next to the fire.