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On the tune of a liberal philanthropist, there hope perishes in the last buying and selling. As sweet as syrup the soul was indeed sold out to the devil. Hell’s pot was overcooking because of this. Rotten wine was distilled well for Satan’s Sabbath. Human faeces smoked there as stinking incense.      

On that day, the worldling was already a living-dead. Moaning, whining, they gnashed on their teeth and began to haunt as ghosts in daytime already.  Yes, past the last survival-gate, there between life and death, between Hades and Earth, in a no-man’s-land belt. Therefore, the little word ‘hope’ has perished in the tune of the liberal philanthropist.