Thursday, 5 May 2011

The Burden. (An Ode to Nationalism)

In a change to the usual schedule, I have written an ode, or a kind of poem to depict some of the things that burdens my mind.  I removed the last article I wrote (for reasons I shall probably keep to myself for the time being) - so, because of this, I thought I had better come up with something to replace it.

I am not a poet, I do not claim to be good at poetry - so I am sure this one may give a few 'liberals' a laugh.......but I have sat down this evening for an hour or so, and this is what just naturally came out.

As usual for me, it is rather long for a poem - and to be honest I could have kept going for hours with verses - but I thought it was getting quite long enough already and chose to stop it before it went any further.

So, here we go.

The Burden.

The burden of our knowledge is just one fateful thing,
Of the chaos that has been brought to our once tranquil spring.
The knowledge that things are just not going to be right,
Is the burden we now carry for our days and our nights.

The wreckers have come and have burdened our souls,
They have blighted this country, perhaps for once and for all.
For it is no mere accident that all this came to be,
It was planned from the start, and that does bother me.

The life we once lived is now lost in the haze,
Of our memories of a past we so seek oh to save,
The burden I carry is so much weighting me down,
The point is now past where I have sorrows to drown.

The wreckers have done this, of that I am sure,
They sought to destroy what was once much more pure.
They plotted and schemed and they befuddled us all,
Marching along with those names they would call.

You’re a despicable racist, a hater, a fascist; they said,
When what they really desired was the West to be dead.
The burden of knowing their success is a hard one to take,
When you come to realise that your whole race is at stake.

Eight percent and shrinking, can this really be our fate?
This is this just one of the reasons at night I’m laying awake.
The other is the burden that others do not really know,
Nor see it is not hatred in our veins that do flow.

The hate is much more reserved for the processes at hand,
For those people who seek to cleanse us from this land.
No people can survive this situation they’ve brought,
Well, not without a fight, mass deportations - or, perhaps, vote.

Is it really so evil to just want to live peaceful and free,
In a country where people are just like you and like me?
Is it really so evil to save what is left of our race?
It is surely destroyers of diversity who are the true disgrace.

The knowledge of this situation is certainly a burden to bear,
A burden made much worse when so few seem to care.
Is it a situation or a premise that just dare not be said?
Or is it just that the wreckers have fully poisoned their heads?

We are told it is progress, the future, a cause for much celebration,
This ever unfolding destruction of our people; this nation.
The burden is also to watch this disturbing situation unfold,
To run rings around the absurdities of the lies we are told.

Yes, the burden can weigh you down all day and all night,
When you know in your heart this situation isn’t right.
It is not as though we hate a few fellow men for arrival,
But we are now at the point we must fight for survival.

It is not as though we begrudge our fellow humans either a life,
But we know in the future there will be nothing but strife.
The same fate has consumed so many people elsewhere
Whether it racial replacement, admixture, religious warfare.

This may not happen, of course that is quite possibly true,
But one wouldn’t place a bet on it, and nor really should you.
The only way it won’t happen is if we give up the fight
Go quietly, acquiesce, and disappear in the night.

Ten thousand plus years our forebears have been here,
Yet in the space of just 150 we are to be out on our ear.
The wreckers have come and they have poisoned our well
It is they who have developed and nurtured this hell.

The “useful idiots” have yielded their sickles and hammers,
To uproot, to knock down, all what we once clambered,
All that we have built for ourselves and our future,
Bent out of shape, transformed, they just wanted it neutered.

Revolution they wanted, “Revolution!” they cried!
Look at the result, this once proud land's almost died.
A nation of druggies, gang rape, of stabbings and shootings,
Let alone the street robbery, the vandalism and lootings.

For it is not just the ethnic means they have sought to inflict,
But the criminals and the scum their judges no longer convict.
It is the removal of pride, of our safety, of our rules,
All via the ‘happy clappy’ liberal pursuit of such fools.

The right to govern ourselves has also been denied,
As their “progressive” vehicle tootled along for its ride.
The levers of political power are now well out of our hands,
The future of our people slips through them like sand.

Yet what can be done to avert this present force?
That is the illusive answer we all seek, of course.
Perhaps first we must create an identity for ourselves
Before we are history leather bound, on dusty book shelves.

From there might just come a new will to thrive,
Perhaps then we will gain the means to survive.
‘There are more of us than them’ as people do say,
So somehow we have to let people find out our way.

Yet the burden is pressing ever more deep on my mind,
For the solutions to this nightmare, I do struggle to find.
We can empty their bins and can canvass on litter
Yet it is the bigger picture that really makes us so bitter.

If we have no recruits, then our mission will falter,
There will be no more Britons, no churches and their altars,
Gone will be the tolerance that we gave so much to the other,
As when their tribal instinct comes, God knows we shall suffer.

Perhaps this is just the brutal way of the world I suppose,
The weak shall perish; we can’t make friends with our foes.
Ten thousand years, is this degradation the pinnacle?
The way things are going we just may need a miracle.

When I see our past splendour, our once pleasant Isle,
When I see the faces of white children still beam and smile,
These are the things that make me continue this on,
As I am reminded that these faces will one day be gone.

In the darkest hours I sometimes do question our rights,
To persist in our ‘unseemly’ defence in this plight,
The wreckers have come and they have laid things on thick,
But they had to I suppose; to bring us down brick by brick.

The way that I see it, well, our cause, it is just,
It is our nation, our people; to battle on is a must.
It is the burden, the backpack, the baggage to wear,
Of knowledge, of insight, that makes you despair.

How long I shall fight for? It is getting harder to tell,
It depends how much more poison is poured into the well.
The well leads to the spring, from which our people shall drink,
If it is fate, it is fate, but I just wish people would think.

The clock is globally ticking eight percent down to six
A mere fraction of this number having birth giving hips.
These hips only lay at around two percent of our number,
So really, we have little more time we can slumber.

I still have some hope we can turn this around,
That something will happen, some way will be found.
Emotional blackmail and guilt chokes the air from our breath,
But if we do not wake up, we really do face our death. 

{Added verses}

So onwards we must go in this battle we fight,
To put something together, to show people the light.
How it can be done is still anybody's guess,
Yet there has to be a way to get us out of this mess.

Those refusing our messages may have to be left behind,
One day they may understand what has preoccupied our mind.
For those of us already fully aware of the plight that we face,
It is hoped that, if nothing else, we can find some secure space.

This last ditch survival must be worked at by hook or by crook,
For politics and wishful thinking is now not nearly enough.
Progress may be slow, we may not do all that much,
Yet the seeds must keep being sown for a general push.

This survival, or revival, cannot be something that's rushed,
It must be organic, imbibed, so not very easily crushed.
There are those that will fight us, of that I am sure
Yet we should be in a position by then not to care any more.

So the task must be to get on with the realities at hand,
To throw away the distractions, all the banal, the bland.
It is time to free ourselves from the shackles that tend to bind,
To think big, to think bold, outside our opponent's confines.

Our right for survival is bigger than these manufactured constraints,
We must uncouple ourselves from the disaster that awaits.
European man must relearn to be strident, to plot our own course,
To live apart from the rest, to go on, to go forth.

The End. 

Thanks for reading,
British Activism.