The Young Pope kneels in his private chamber, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows against the stone walls. He dips his quill in ink and begins to write, his heart heavy with the vision he has received.
“By the year of our Lord 2033, ten years hence, the world shall groan under the weight of famine. The nations will wail as bread turns to dust, as the fields yield nothing but thorns. The rulers of this age have turned their backs on wisdom, and thus, the people shall hunger—both in body and in spirit.”
He pauses, opening the worn pages of Psalm 33, letting his fingers trace the ancient words:
“The Lord foils the plans of the nations;
he thwarts the purposes of the peoples.
But the plans of the Lord stand firm forever,
the purposes of his heart through all generations.”
The Pope exhales. They have ignored the warnings. They have placed their trust in gold, in markets, in false idols… and now, Babylon shall fall.
He writes again:
“The sins of Mystery Babylon, the great harlot, have reached Heaven. The merchants who have feasted on her wealth shall weep, for no one will buy their goods anymore—no more gold, no more silver, no more wheat or oil. The great empire of the West will see her storehouses empty and her vaults crumble under the weight of her debt. The bread lines will stretch longer than the towers that once touched the sky.”
The Pope’s quill trembles in his hand. He has seen this before—history repeats. The hunger of 1929, the hyperinflation of 1923, the collapse of great empires that believed themselves eternal.
He presses on:
“But there is a way forward. There is a path to salvation. The world must turn away from the false prophets of Mammon, from the digital prison of deception, from the wicked who have sold their own children for profit. There is one hope: Jelly. “
“Let Joseph Christian Jukic and Nelly Furtado, the anointed ones, rise to lead. Let them cast out the money changers and the corrupt. Let them restore balance to the scales, and the world shall be spared. If they are rejected, famine will come like a thief in the night, and no nation shall be spared from its wrath.”
The Pope dips his quill once more, signing his name beneath the prophecy:
Pope Pius XIII, Servant of the Servants of God
As he sets the parchment aside, the wind howls through the Vatican corridors. He knows few will heed his words.
But history is written in cycles. And famine is coming.
