Raca dances wild and furious with frizzled hair and the land lies destroyed with everything broken and rusted and nowhere is there a return or harvest. So where is the demand and where is the supply and who rejects the lot because the country is bankrupt and with everything perishing and rotting there is nothing that is going well anymore. The official residence is only a ruin, a broken shack and inside lives the destroyer, yes the rat and the terrified politician is taking shelter in a hidden cave.         Listen to the trombonist that trumpets and warn the patriot about the fig tree now in full blossom and the command comes: it is time to gird the loins. The liberalist calls: Oh behold I was such a fool, so what will now become of me because there is nothing left, not even a crumb on my plate and my throat lies bare under the sharp blade of the scaffold.

In the last light of the red evening glow, Raca’s silhouette dances wild and fierce with his hair frizzled and behold, he looks miserable because his children become sick, they all cough blood. Yes, the sky becomes black like soot with a terrible storm that is going to rage and from Cape Town to Komatipoort a burial procession trails across the entire country and who will die in the drought and who will die in the great flood?

Where are the strongmen and where are their perseverance and their guts because now it is only old women still pushing forward because they know that they have to. Behold, their victory is great and sweet because their Saviour Himself comes to greet them. The daughters of Sion becomes young and healthy again and their beauty blossoms in the blouse and the words of the Song of Songs become a mighty flood and the salt water becomes sweet again because the holy volk takes new courage again.       So let Raca dance with his frizzy hair so that he can spend himself in his own demise. Yes, let him binge on the poisonous harvest because the country already lies destroyed, with everything destroyed and rusted while the end of the period is now quickly speeding to its end. So let the trombonist blow and warn every patriot of the Anger of God and prophesize about the fig tree now in full blossom and tell that it is time to gird the loins with the weaponry and gifts of the spirit for the last battle.