A dream once held, will last forever.

Modern Struggles and Preserving Cultural Identity

Now cities rise where farms once lay,

Where tractors hummed, children played.

The land is divided, the voices small,

Yet within each heart, a courage calls.

Schoolyards echo with a foreign tongue,

Old songs fade, new songs are sung,

Yet festivals bloom with drum and dance,

A stubborn flame, a second chance.

Markets bustle with trade and sound,

Yet in hidden corners, roots are found,

In kitchens where mothers knead the bread,

And teach the children words once said.

Through newspapers, through whispered lore,

Through church bells ringing at the door,

The Afrikaner finds a place to stand,

A living bridge across the land.

Oh, the tongue, both tender and bold,

Stories of silver, stories of gold.

In every phrase, a past survives,

A heartbeat strong, a culture thrives.

Though some may scoff and others jest,

The language carries the soul’s request:

“Remember us, remember the veld,

Remember the dreams that time once held.”

Through children’s laughter, through scholar’s pen,

Through letters sent to kin and friends,

The words endure, the stories rise,

A river of voice beneath the skies.

Each proverb, rhyme, and sacred song,

Proclaims a people where they belong.

Not in walls or land alone,

But in the spirit that’s fully grown.

At dawn, the bells of Sunday ring,

Echoing the hope that prayers bring.

In humble homes, in small churches,

The Afrikaner answers the ancestral call.

The bread is baked, the fire alight,

The stories shared deep into the night,

And though the world may shift and sway,

The heart remains a steadfast way.

For faith is not a fragile thing,

But a kite that soars on an eternal string,

A hope that lifts through storm and doubt,

A promise that roots can’t be worn out.

In towns and farms, when harvests come,

The music plays, the voices hum,

Children dance in braided hair,

Elders smile with gentle care.

Songs of veld, of veldt-born sun,

Remind them all they are as one,

Connected to those who came before,

Their dreams alive, their spirits soar.

Through art, through song, through the written word,

The Afrikaner story is widely heard,

Not as a relic, not as a ghost,

But as a people who cherish most.

The culture breathes, it bends, it flows,

In the hands of those who chose to know,

That heritage is not a chain,

But a river that courses through joy and pain.