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I listen to the cawing and screeching of a pitch-black raven. To the tune of a death march it comes: messed up, messed up. The words say: South Africa has dug her own grave. Neither cold, nor hot, in everything oh so extremely lukewarm. So she built on that foundation a rainbow nation, a useless, hybrid race.

That is why the light of God shines suffocatingly faint over South Africa. Throughout the world her government is jeered as a useless, evil gang. But a small pure group does remember. And while they mourn bitterly over their lost heritage. They stand before God in humility, in deep repentance.

Yes, for all their many sins and unfaithfulness. And while the words of their fathers unfold again in their minds. They cry out loudly: Grant us again the strength, oh Father, to uphold and maintain. So that the heritage of our fathers can again enfold our children. So I listen to an old, old song in almost forgotten words of yesterday’s remembrance. Oh, orange, white and blue, come oh Elohim, come to Sion’s people in a handful of honourable Boers kept for the end times.

In the hand of the false Statue of Liberty a dead flame of hope is desperately held for the world. With the rumble of the great war that begins to unfold from Moscow. I hear the pitch-black raven’s cawing and screeching. And to the tune of a death march the words come again: messed up, messed up.