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In a spring without flower-growth, where fruit trees would refuse to bloom. The wind howled ominously in a storm that would brew destructively. The martyr was cuffed, helpless, while his wife and child would slowly bleed to death. A volk was weary to the bone, their hate began growing uncontrolled.   

The end-time sun scorched relentlessly, gruellingly.  While God would prune this volk’s dead branches without mercy. The war-sirens began wailing terrifyingly, without warning. With human blood that would flow through streets like shallow rivers, coagulating and crawling.  

Madness and reason wrestled with each other for authority, like wild animals. With no harmony or peace that could bring this fight to a solution. Cuffed to his lifeboat, as steersman the pilgrim, the traveller to his eternity, could not paddle himself ashore, to safety.    

Look, in the fat years of abundant growth, nobody suspected that the big drought would come in the image of a skinny, emaciated cow. Therefore, the end-time wind kept on wailing incessantly, ominously. While the martyr would call desperately: Oh God, did I bleed myself out in vain, for no cause?