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In the midnight of a dark night, a pitch-black, bitter tear falls from an ominous darkness. The angel of deaths draws his sickle to hit through India for an enormous harvest. The rider on the grey Horse will also go destructively through Pakistan, reaching to Afghanistan.

In the middle of the day, while the sun will stand still over Asia and will scorch it. The Grim Reaper will strike people dead in large numbers, with a whip like a lighting flash, in inhumane heat. The stench of death and decomposition will go wide across large areas. Then famine will stand closer in all its misery, as a terrifying reality.

Almost all crops and harvests will perish in the extreme weather conditions. A large portion of all livestock will therefore decompose in miscarriage. Then all hope will diminish into nothing, because Salvation did not step in. So the hands are now clasped together in prayer. But the many dead idols are completely incompetent and cannot make a plan.  The holy cow also stood skinny to the rib-bone.

With milk and honey now completely finished, there was also no pure water left in the tap. Mothers wept and fathers were tearful. As far as the eye could see, people stood next to cremations and graves, in sorrow. The wood for cremations was also finished long ago already. So, the sun went red across the East. While the dark moon would go across Africa under one and the same circumstances.