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I hear a cry, a voice that breaks. I see a man, weak and soft. Next to his wife and child, stabbed to death by Raca. I see the hate igniting. There where the neighbourly love is now lacking. I see the same blood-measure is now meted. Stop, therefore, the hypocritical church-preaching. 

I listen to the first bullet-shot breaking the silence. I see a bloodbath across the country in every region. I see a khaki-shirt drenched in blood. The Knave of Spades calls it his blood-garment. With his entire face smeared with the enemy’s blood, he is taking revenge.     

In his hand he holds a butcher’s-knife. With every stab upon stab, he does not relax his deadly grip for one moment. He now has his enemy by the throat.  With so many corpses that he drags out of his path. I hear a cry, with Sheba now begging. I see Raca desperately eating his own child.     

Yes, in a country now ignited by Caucasian. I hear them call: For long enough we were weak and soft. Therefore, we will break the chains of our turnaround with violence. There next to the grave of a white woman and child, stabbed to death cruelly. There, the last maladjusted neighbourly love ignited into the biggest hate.