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I hear a child crying sadly. There where he is trying to hide in a storm drain pipe, alone and scared. I see the country is scorched black and it is filthy. Yes, just one deep, ominous, dark pit.

I hear the ho-ho cry of the wise old owl. He calls: Oh what is left, that you can still trade for your soul? I see an old dilapidated house. Around it there was once a beautiful city, now just a rubbish heap of useless gravel.

I hear rivers becoming silent in their roaring and I know somewhere something is not right. I hear the wind howling sadly, there around the ruins of a church tower, with a fallen weathercock and cross. Desperately I hammer on a door with my fist, but alas, the young people have moved to another country.

I see a volk with her DNA mixed. Yes, many of them, the maiden is no longer beautiful and chaste. I hear a big roaring, in the flames of a burning farm, shed and homestead. I see a Boer woman weeping sadly for the last time there in her cosy kitchen.

I hear a scared Boer child softly crying, heartbreaking. There where he is trying to hide in a drainage ditch, trembling. I look around me and see the land is filthy, stolen empty and looted empty. Look, in the squatter camp they murder each other over the booty.

I hear the knave of spades whistling softly and I see the once proud Boer as a pack animal, just a useful mule. I see a bankrupt bank with an open, empty safe. All the mines have already moved. In a plague, rats and mice are running through the farmlands.

I hear a bang and I see a broken flower pot. And next to it, a volk with an empty stomach. I see an old warship, in an attack it dives down to the seabed as a wreck. I know the taxpayer is properly robbed and outsmarted out of his existence.

I see a roof with a dark hatch. I look through it and see a terrible thunderstorm in a big roaring. Raca dances his wild dance around a burning alien shrub. He is wearing an old-woman dress and on his head is a dirty old wig. While he now stench disgustingly like death.

I now hear all Africa’s children cry and their mothers complaining : We have used up the last food. Yes, I hear all the people complain globally: Just look how empty our stomachs are. But the earth mocks and says: For long enough you have exploited me shamelessly.