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Siembamba, mamma’s little child, sleep now my little one and listen my child: To the end-time song, sung in a children’s rhyme. The Judgment-word is here and the pestilence rages on. In her quick passage from South to West, East to North, she is going unbelievably big.

Sleep little pikanienie, sleep now my child and listen to the monotonous rhythm in the  children-rhyme chord. Close your little eyes and pray that your soul will not belong to the pestilence. Death is coming on the back of a big, pitch-black, scary bird. It is coming for mothers, on the lyrics of sorrow, in mourning tone.

Yes, the mothers weep, in their sorrow so great. Siembamba, mamma’s little one. The sin of the parents was far too big. With the end of it, children-murder. Sleep now pikanienie and do not listen to the Pied Piper’s call-tone. Together with the pestilence, he now also calls the children on board.  He is the Knave of Spades, he is Death and on the command of Judgment he is going big.