For the poet, on the melody of South Africa. Oh, over what are you complaining and moaning so much, oh Boer? Together with your Freemason brother, you worship the sun-god Ra and you call Mammon your own blood-father. You have picked a whip for your own backside, but you cannot endure your beating. Your rescue was in no, but then you voted yes. So listen to your song, dedicated to your own stupidity and know you will never again get rid of your political problem.

For the poet, on the sad melody of a dying Africa come the words of Sheba asking passionately: What, oh what my child Raca, is bothering you so much? Oh, why could you not tolerate your own shortcomings in humility, so that you would not be complaining over the crumbled gifts (infrastructure) of the West now?

Look, in fairytale-beautiful full-moon nights, you have danced exuberantly around your beautiful night fires, while you would proudly carry your young on your back during your dance. You have conveyed your gratitude to the spirits and in the numbers and fat of your goats and cattle were your delight. But now you are completely downhearted in your Western decay.

For the poet, on the melody of America: What is bothering you so much, oh Yank? Look, between conservative and liberal, one-and-the-same country-flags are flying; and this while brother-blood-spilling is asking for each other’s downfall.

Listen, in the last accord of your churches, the last notes of the once-holy hallelujah also die now. In your future, all your useless peace-accords lie in smoke and ashes. Soon you will, as compatriots, grab each other by the collar to get rid of your mutual problems. Look, in unprecedented cataclysms your fall will come systematically and the Judgment Scale has much delight in this.

For the poet, on the call-for-help of a helpless, newborn baby. I, who is Sion, come and sing my song to the Ears of my Heavenly Father, my Abba, my El, yes my YaH, and while I complain to Him over my lot, His voice comes through the mouth of an old prophet, from a fire-horse-chariot of the faraway past.

He calls: Tell Me, oh Jerusalem, what is bothering you so much. So, come and look Me now right in the heart and in the eyes, oh Sion, and ask all your questions. All the answers of the new period are dedicated to only you. Yes, so that you, as firstlings, as Melchizedek priests, can convey it to all of creation.