With the Spring Tree blooming pitch-black, the bat carries death from its cave. On the farmlands the rice and barley perish, while all the good wheat is rotting in the silos. In rust and moth, another pestilence comes on a gallop like a wild little Cossack rider, straddled on a wild gallop, yes on the back of a grey rat.  

Man coughs blood and drowns in his own snot. In overcrowded slum upon slum, the lot now falls mercilessly. In unprecedented famine there is also nothing cooking in the pot and nothing from government’s side goes fluently.

Oh, what has kicked the planet so askew off her course? Without anyone noticing it, she hopped wildly around her own equator. She herself does not know her backside from her front. What is down and what is up?

Everyone must now beware of her disrupted weather patterns. Look, in fire, sulfur and wild lightning bolts, unprecedented snow and hail are falling. Under this cruel lot, man as well as animal must know that their flesh will rot.