A man comes on a Highway and his clothes are smeared with blood and listen to him singing his war-song so furiously. He lifts his hand in a clenched fist, yes in an aggressive greeting and the old people whispers: the children of today are indeed strange with too much arrogant courage. But we can only blame ourselves and therefore we have to pay, yes as black as soot and as red as blood, who could know and who could suspect, in the end everyone will rage it out on each other.