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From the rustling of an eerie silence comes a soft whistle as a sign. Man or mouse, from the revelling through the wee hours of the night, the murderer comes sneaking and he remains forever – always a lowly vile scum.

In the stone-clap sound of the breaking clod. It comes loud and clear from the far, ruined South. Dark and murky of soul as well as skin, Raca claims his booty viciously, in hordes.

With the vault no longer locked, its contents are displayed without guns or single dime. It robs, kills and loots, in smoke and gunpowder, with the sound of razor-sharp bullet-whistling.

In the stone-clap sound of stones and clods hurled, the shards of breaking glass and panes splash. Hell is unlocked in weeping and gnarling, by a cruel mob, who can only rob, murder and riot.

With ears tingling and blood spraying in all directions, many a house stands stripped. So there is still very few at home, while the mass is hastily trying to move to safety. Therefore, listen to the clapping sound of stone and clod. Therefore, take up your cross. Know with God by your side, you have to fear no enemy or mob.