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The old rusted weathercock turned aimlessly on the dilapidated church tower. Denying, the yard rooster crowed three times.  Precious love was now despised contemptuously. Once – good friends now betrayed each other without reason. Blood ties that were holy once, now turned against each other. The rest of the path was sown with thistles and thorns. On a street corner, the wind paged aimlessly through the pages of a thrown-away bible. A lonely wanderer stood there on one side, completely windswept.

The atmosphere was loaded with a terrifying Godly silence. The trade ships were lying anchored, motionless in the loading bay. The consumers yearned for bread and in vain they would dream of something green in the salad. Nostalgically they thought back to forgotten, flavoursome meat that would braai on coals.

The very last harvest was now thinly sown. There was also no yield that could be harvested.  Mothers tried to console their children with make-believe, imaginary meals.  But with only the forgotten tune that would carry on aimlessly.  It was also only the rusted weathercock that would keep on turning on the dilapidated church tower, creaking and aimlessly.