Oh Soraya! (It stars of the Morning).
I see the survivor, obsequious to make green of the resistant trees to the trunks of the dictatorships human, inhuman. I calm down because I re-enter in the green-clearing of my planting. Many stopped things in the street with wheels, that make noise and they smoke, inventions to benefit the happiness of the consumption societies. What remains of eleven floors… of a vast colonial building, whipped by the buckets of festering liquids thrown at random for the sewer of the street of the freedom.
To middle of the night darken for the fleeting energy revolutionary electrical. The people's habitual invasion, of the women, seems that their heads were made for us to carry things. They are just a vulgar appendix, it was not done to think. There are always in this street affronts that lead to boxing trainings. It is suddenly many banks appear, it is guaranteed money launder
Horror! Day and night thunder the motorcycles of free escape, and the music of the drumming modern burst grenades. Difficult it is to happen a moment of peace, of silence. They are the murderers of the everyday that they walk ordained, with the ordinance of the lawless. And the disordered traffic of the nomenclature, beaten by the howling motorcycles of the police. They are shipwrecked of the petroleum. A lot of petroleum, a lot of poverty. These streets are immense stagnated slavers. They are as birds caged in the dictatorship.
It is necessary an open window to feel the wind of the freedom of the swallows. They fly the great speed low, it seems that they will collide me, but no, just salute us. The planted green and the irradiated flight of the swallows, they sing the steep walk of the no soluble.
Her marriage (swallows) it is indissoluble and only the death can undo himt. They are endowed with the highest aptitude for the flight and they go great part of her life by the air.
They eat, they drink and they take a bath flying and, still in the own flight, they feed the children that begin in the art of flying, but that still didn't achieve the indispensable practice of hunting. Rui Barbosa wrote an unforgettable page on these sensational creatures, Axel Munthe admitted that there is no more touching poetry than the rhythmic to beat of wings of a bird in the high of the skies, Humberto of Campos says that the birds are the small library of God.
In Rosane Volpatto caradobrasil.com.br
The grown girls in the aleive walk to the school forgetting about the hunger. The ones that live far get up at four o'clock, five mornings. The insane traffic is such and which as the rulers' head… headstrong. When a kingdom doesn't have highways, she travels on tiptoe. And in the return, at night, she waits for them the sexual violation of the unhealthy human ethyl vegetation. The extreme drink the wisdom. It is for that that the drunks are wise.
Without libraries, without books, without Internet, without teachers, school is pastime. To date and to pass idioms. They leave gown, later they are leaned in an automobile, they remove the miniskirt and they are in the aptitude of lifting the hunt. The infantile and juvenile behaviour is the adults' mirror. Woman's life is still to manufacture children and to store them. We can publicise him: Contribute to the enlargement of the nation. Make many children, who knows, some will arrive to president, minister, deputy. I don't know that side the kindness is. She and the cruelty felt the hands. Now who lives happy, it is because she made somebody to be unhappy.
Comments of the upstart's last acquisition, a musical shower are heard. It is "a shower with magic, of the sorcery". It "Cost four thousand dollars". The great ships of the injustices torment, they feed the hunger and the great storms of the revolutions. I already convinced myself, I know, I don't know… what is that they have in the head. They are equalitarian, possessed by Matrix. Irresponsible, wicked, incompetent, gods of the corruption.
Gil Gonçalves
I see the survivor, obsequious to make green of the resistant trees to the trunks of the dictatorships human, inhuman. I calm down because I re-enter in the green-clearing of my planting. Many stopped things in the street with wheels, that make noise and they smoke, inventions to benefit the happiness of the consumption societies. What remains of eleven floors… of a vast colonial building, whipped by the buckets of festering liquids thrown at random for the sewer of the street of the freedom.
To middle of the night darken for the fleeting energy revolutionary electrical. The people's habitual invasion, of the women, seems that their heads were made for us to carry things. They are just a vulgar appendix, it was not done to think. There are always in this street affronts that lead to boxing trainings. It is suddenly many banks appear, it is guaranteed money launder
Horror! Day and night thunder the motorcycles of free escape, and the music of the drumming modern burst grenades. Difficult it is to happen a moment of peace, of silence. They are the murderers of the everyday that they walk ordained, with the ordinance of the lawless. And the disordered traffic of the nomenclature, beaten by the howling motorcycles of the police. They are shipwrecked of the petroleum. A lot of petroleum, a lot of poverty. These streets are immense stagnated slavers. They are as birds caged in the dictatorship.
It is necessary an open window to feel the wind of the freedom of the swallows. They fly the great speed low, it seems that they will collide me, but no, just salute us. The planted green and the irradiated flight of the swallows, they sing the steep walk of the no soluble.
Her marriage (swallows) it is indissoluble and only the death can undo himt. They are endowed with the highest aptitude for the flight and they go great part of her life by the air.
They eat, they drink and they take a bath flying and, still in the own flight, they feed the children that begin in the art of flying, but that still didn't achieve the indispensable practice of hunting. Rui Barbosa wrote an unforgettable page on these sensational creatures, Axel Munthe admitted that there is no more touching poetry than the rhythmic to beat of wings of a bird in the high of the skies, Humberto of Campos says that the birds are the small library of God.
In Rosane Volpatto caradobrasil.com.br
The grown girls in the aleive walk to the school forgetting about the hunger. The ones that live far get up at four o'clock, five mornings. The insane traffic is such and which as the rulers' head… headstrong. When a kingdom doesn't have highways, she travels on tiptoe. And in the return, at night, she waits for them the sexual violation of the unhealthy human ethyl vegetation. The extreme drink the wisdom. It is for that that the drunks are wise.
Without libraries, without books, without Internet, without teachers, school is pastime. To date and to pass idioms. They leave gown, later they are leaned in an automobile, they remove the miniskirt and they are in the aptitude of lifting the hunt. The infantile and juvenile behaviour is the adults' mirror. Woman's life is still to manufacture children and to store them. We can publicise him: Contribute to the enlargement of the nation. Make many children, who knows, some will arrive to president, minister, deputy. I don't know that side the kindness is. She and the cruelty felt the hands. Now who lives happy, it is because she made somebody to be unhappy.
Comments of the upstart's last acquisition, a musical shower are heard. It is "a shower with magic, of the sorcery". It "Cost four thousand dollars". The great ships of the injustices torment, they feed the hunger and the great storms of the revolutions. I already convinced myself, I know, I don't know… what is that they have in the head. They are equalitarian, possessed by Matrix. Irresponsible, wicked, incompetent, gods of the corruption.
Gil Gonçalves
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