There is not much talking now. A silence falls upon them all. This is
 no time to talk of hedges and fields, or the beauties of any
 country. Sadness and fear and hate, how they well up in the heart and
 mind, whenever one opens the pages of these messengers of doom. Cry
 for the broken tribe, for the law and custom that is gone. Aye, and
 cry aloud for the man who is dead, for the woman and children
 bereaved. Cry, the beloved country, these things are not yet at an
 end. The sun pours down on the earth, on the lovely land that man
 cannot enjoy. He knows only the fear of his heart.
          -- Cry, the beloved country. Alan Paton