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From the song of a heaven-troubadour, from the homesickness of a dove’s lonely coo. Comes the story of the Boer, once so proud and stalwart.  But there in his trampled land, where his once heroic deeds do not move heartstrings anymore. There, his offspring moved to other countries, for the sake of survival, like the Israelites of old.      

With a big part of them stirred into the mongrel-pot of DNA, the once-proud Boer is therefore, solicited, or unsolicited, completely finished. With his Orange, White and Blue no longer flying on his flagpole in the wind, in his blue heavens. His mouth has been silenced also in the freedom-song of his volk-voice.    

There where the noble remnant lingers and loiters listless in their daily task, and farm to fill Raca’s belly until it wants to burst. Yes, in the uncontrolled accretion where they must feed millions. While the millions just behold their downfall, from all sides. But from the heaven song of the big Troubadour, comes a song with the sound of tambourine and tambour.

It says: I am your Only God and therefore I guard you jealously. I establish only you as My shelter in the end-time wind and nobody will move you from your stand. Look, I make the remnant of the Boer strong, sober, and stalwart again. There in their land and look, in their hand the rifle thunders victoriously again. And there at their feet their enemy lies deceased, now also finished.