I recognized you fugitive of the window of the airplane
stealthy. In an endless African afternoon
always too pale, without serenity
consumed, with a lot of tropical rain
Always in the dream that ran for you
and in the we hugged each others
In we looked at each other during almost fifty years
of the History that pursues us
Of the sweet stabbed tenderness
While the rain forced our fragility
Because the Universe left
it is just
A man and a woman faking love
I woke up, I lost you forever
It is for that that I travel in the hope
Of meeting to the window
of a stealthy airplane
My birthplace was my world
I remember to feel her force
when he walked in his fertile ground
Now I have been loaded, perfumed, thrown to the filthy
Of the generations without life
of the Angolan dictatorship
of her petroleum
of their diamonds
of the soccer and of the real stadiums
inflammables, infamous
It was amusing, without currents, arrested in the traffic of the streams
And of their celestial gardens that they taught me to be woman
Divine as a symphony
in the celestial grass
They told me that the Nature was a picture, a painting
executed by my ancestors
That they came of very far
And that the babes were breastfeed of the sap of the flowers
They said of them that were other fragile paintings
Other creatures, other flowers in the celestial garden forever forbidden
of they be picked
That it was as soon as everything began in our World
The rivers were serpents and the sun invited them to meditate in the life
Everything continued like this until that a dictator sold us
he sold
The sunbeams that shone in the transparent stones
I lost the present and I mortgaged my future
He sat down dawning in the high of the Young man's hill
And he hoped the sun captured me
In bass the people bloomed in the morning transparency
Moving for the sadness of the infinite to extend supplicant
Of the hands, of the body in the mendicant solution
Without direction, without visual universe
That here lies in the presidential palace
of him, of them
My everyday one finished
It was a group of permanent memories
He is emperor, king, and our president
certainly of Shaka descending Zulu
In another civil war always living
Despairing that the mandate messianic architectural
without presidential elections
Last long in the coming generations, perpetuated
To govern is an art, the idiots don't think so
With the heads of such distant rural picks
As a difficult sensibility, where it doesn't drift her
To drive is so soft, simple
The dictator complicates what is so easy
Image: Angola em fotos
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