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A scale falls and it rains blood, brimstone and hail. It is time, yes, it is time to pay for the trampling of God’s volk. Oh, how precious the Boer language once was. Where so many brave deeds would be told in heroic tales. It tells of victory but also of failure. Of a people ‘s blessing and also potential. So Godly bountifully poured out upon them to the maximum total. But in their prosperity they stand so lukewarm, neutral.

Standing with one foot in their culture, with the other, in the Bantu-Ubuntu kraal. In their churches they pray together with every colour and scent so intensely liberal. Yes, there on their knees before a One World god named Lord Baal.

Listen therefore to the sound of steel on steel in a country with a general, but with the qualifications of an incompetent corporal. I hear a scale falling, as he calls: Long enough the war has only been a verbal battle of words. Long enough everything so abnormal has been considered as the normal.

A bloodbath is coming and believe me it is fatal. So, sing your war song oh Boer and sing it again in your beautiful language. Listen your war song is translated directly from Afrikaans into heavenly language. There where it spirals like sweet incense to heaven.

Yes, before the great Divine Silence briefly descends upon an evil world. Therefore, O Boer, sing your war song at the top of your voice and refine your blood and bones to pure steel again. Yes, in the fearless, brave song of a Boer hero tale.