Old House

I went hiking a couple of days ago. It was quite a long one for me, over four hours.
   Through two woods and over the moors to a line of three sycamores next to the ruins of an old tenant farmers house. There wasn't much left, just a couple of low walls, some piles of fallen stones and a hearth. It was mostly covered in grass and moss with lichen on the exposed stones. The trees looked to be about 120 years old perhaps. They were probably seedlings or saplings when the house was abandoned. I suppose it was deserted when the landlord found sheep more profitable and evicted the family.
   I sat in the ruins, looking past the trees to the hills a few miles away. I thought about the man that lived there and his wife, surely he had one. How many children did they have? Are any of his descendants still alive? What did they do when they were evicted? I wondered what such a man would think of us, of me.
   In his life we were an unstoppable race. The thought of hundreds of thousands of children like his own being raped by gangs of subhuman Muslims in the middle of England would have been surreal. The thought of his government allowing it and arresting him for trying to stop it would have been incomprehensible. Are some of his descendants among the victims? Was one of his great great grand daughters passed around like a piece of meat among these animals? Is their a half breed mongrel out there right now that could arrogantly claim to have a place here?

   We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.