In Angola they feel prisoners political accused of any crime. They say that it is a democratic regime that it is in the middle of the joy of their functions. The democratic potencies close the eyes and they point that it is like this that it is good, that it is like this that it is made the stability in Africa. Here is the income of the terrorism of which Europe is not gotten to loosen. Who supports the corruption and their dictatorships, in the bottom it is also terrorist without the knowledge.

quinta-feira, 8 de janeiro de 2009

How to Navigate without Sea

Attracted by the pathetic keys of a piano, immortal sound, the man of the street doesn't get to distinguish from where come, but even so it stops hypnotized. Sublime blows in the keys wake up his conscience. He sits down in the soul an inexplicable light. Her brain tries to transmit the pleasant sensations of the melody that it hovers. He gets to drag, to stop in his road of one more eternal slave. We insisted, we didn't accept, that the musical perfume enslaves us. Just as the love. Only that no matter how much we try, we didn't get to explain the musical sweetness of the sounds that they compose, that they take us to the most elementary road of the human existence. The love of the I begin of our youth's times.

To buy car is to increase one more hole, how to navigate without sea. The highways are not necessary. Everything is a necessary evil. A horrible effort of altruistic martyrdom went projected to our modus vivendi. Consistence of losing a lot of hours, to find the old age precociousness, to lose the health.

Delight habits infused without appeal trespass, they propagate in the it would fill up of the streets that no longer the healthy. The main premiums are holes, mires. Streets dug due to the intense search of the feelings oils-producing.
Oh! What nights, those festivals, that mother with suite of sparrows, where you do walk?

The child is ahead, disastrous hurried. She stops, she turns, and it incites the course. The mother carries the age of the suffering, without lament. In the head, a load that doesn't relieve the survival. In the backs, the recent weight of the born unhappiness, fallen asleep. For the hand, the child's annoyance crawls diligent in the against-hand of the bread.
Is the mother, of the mothers of the black poverty. Of the obscure days, of the inextinguishable nights.

Ó black poverty, certainly in the uncertain you walk. The flooded streets of oilfields, black pastures, black grasslands that are not to eat, nor to drink.
Many poets, lawyers, economists, few engineers, few humans.
Illiterate people, will never be independent.
Without books, without freedom.
The poverty is black, of the colour of the petroleum.
The temporary power is momentary, the spiritual is eternalized.

Gil Gonçalves

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