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In the echo of the Boer’s yard-cock, which would crow three times in treason. Time paged from nineteen-ninety-two, to twenty-twenty two. The world-order knew beforehand, but the masses guessed completely wrong. A little volk was betrayed, battered, double-crossed. So their offspring is sitting with an enormous problem today.

Therefore, look at the flight of the African pitch-black crow. There where he circles ominously over Pretoria and Johannesburg. Soon all ships have to anchor in the closest harbour. While the winds of war begin to blow from all directions across the world. That which was sown so hopeful, now becomes meager and destroyed.

With destructive winds that keep on blowing infrastructures down. The black silk cloth is sown to the sleeve of the mourning garment. The mass grave is awaiting the multitudes just around the corner. With the Red Cross trying for the last time, to bring life-supplies to the victims.

But with the pull-back of the big tsunami, the corpses lie sown widely. Under war and unrest, blood lies globally, thick and sticky. Just look, in the mimic-dance of the African parrot. There the Boer lies dead again, his good faith his downfall. Just like Retief, they have blindly made a peace treaty again.

Therefore look up, in the sky there above Pretoria and Johannesburg, the pitch-black crow is circling ominously now. In the old dilapidated graveyards, the Boer ghosts of old are making a racket over their weak offspring who cannot reload the muzzle loader gun anymore. Yes, there where the men of today around the rugby fire, brandy in hand, “courageously” braai their meat, without any conscience.