Even the merchants of the earth mourn and cry over her, because no one buys their goods anymore. Laden with gold, silver and precious stones, pearls, linen and purple, silk and scarlet; perfumed woods of all kinds, ivory objects, of wood, bronze, iron, marble; cinnamon, perfumes, ointment, incense, wine, oil, fine flour, wheat, cattle, flocks, horses, chariots, slaves and human lives.

Merchants have always had a limited time. A handful of days or so. They cultivate illusions, build supermarkets and invent illegality. They are the main creators of the concentration camps that accompany the decline of Western civilization. They export low-value merchandise and create tax havens to help the mechanism of expropriating democracy. They trade on everything, and they determine the price and the expected duration of anything. Natural resources, land, rivers, oceans and deserts are in the ever-updated catalog for totally dispossessing them of life. Since the beginning, they were the specialists of slavery, and now they continue to update its shape and possibilities. They did not realize their time has expired. They have been judged and convicted in absentia as arms manufacturers.

The merchants and those who resemble them ended their time of deception. They too are now victims of the shipwreck to which they have forced thousands of humans who only wanted trade a different future. They locked themselves up behind barbed wires and were protected by cardboard walls. It will not help because peoples will come from all over to cut out entrance doors and windows overlooking the sea. Merchants will be busy buying and selling to citizens what they do not need at all. The ads will end in the dustbin of things that lost meaning. Instead of the supermarket, there will be botanical gardens and benches for those who have no time to waste in shopping. Merchants have their time counted. No one believes anymore their promises of happiness at discounted prices. To save themselves, some of them had already chosen to return to land.

Every captain and navigator, every sailors and seafarer, will stand afar, crying out on seeing the smoke going up as the city burns to the ground: ‘What city could have compared with this one?’ They will pour dust on their heads and cry out in mourning, ‘Alas, alas, great city, where all who had ships at sea, grew rich through her trade! In an hour she has been devastated!’ Even the merchants of the earth mourn and cry over her, because no one buys their goods anymore (Rev. 18, 17ss).

They look at the smoke and rubble of merchandise now useless heaped up in the dust. Profit books, business centers, credit banks and notes from agencies, useless memories of a time overwhelmed by reality. Some merchants have chosen to turn back earning their living as workers or ticket controllers on commuter trains. Tired after work, they will be seated next to the last migrant disembarked with his temporary uniform of port unloader. They will sweep the streets after the white night celebrated in the city. The last merchants will queue in front of the shop windows preserved specially for sold out prices. There are even those who have made themselves available to serve meals at the canteen of the homeless.