The Epic poem of the Darkness (18)

In the kingdom Jingola Stalin it relives, and clear, the deportations also. The Great Leader already created the tropical gulagui that bastard the Politburo calls zangos. It is pure, it is national and they like. Like this, the extermination of the blacks is assured, for the terrorists' pleasure and international speculators.


It is one of their favourite noisier music, and insult for the sound to dislocate the senses… to elevate the cultural identity. To show the mythology no ancestral, but the actual, of the sheets oil-producing, of the diamond-producing fields, of the vast extensions of uncultivated lands, starving. She unmasks in the body the dance, but she forgot unmasking of the mystery of the liberation fight that if actualize in the national destruction.
To hear music is as a great thunderstorm, and they are not necessary rumbling of a thousand thunders and the blindness of a thousand orange rays. Seasoned by the new builders' monstrous machines that hole walks, streets, terraces, that destroy and they rebuild the soils, to I sole and together of the escapes free from the fast ones motorized, authorized to challenge Jupiter.

To dance, to intoxicate, to drug.
As Voltaire's father today would say: some children in prose, other in verse. The parents will always be called invalid and small vessels, because they don't feed their children's madness. No longer we have children. I doubt that somebody has them. Servants of Brutus, to steal and to murder parents. For us to dance, they drink and they sleep.

I looked at what remained at that house. Two fans that worked with luck. They were paralyzed, led of rust. The television worked to the blow. Because of the flaws of the electrical energy the freezer called, it turned off. The careless bed always tumbled in the hour of lying down. Of the roofs of the bath house, of the kitchen and of the corridor, the drops of water comfortably destroyed the dream of a home. They stopped being ceiling tectos, they were grottos with almost stalactites. The couple sexagenarian worked and it struggled for his homeland. And stupidly in the such fight of the liberation, and now for the homeland and family abandoned, it remains them the comfort of the musical sonority, striping of the romantic moments, of the one more census… to be everything in the same and the same ones always receive the same pensions.

So much petroleum and diamonds! How much more wealth more poverty. Where the safes are very full, there is a lot of slavery. Technological slaves of the new technologies. Slaves of the modern Horses of Troy. listen the widows that jump in the trees, showing the mantle of his song. I will never believe in the Man, while only one exists human being to starve.

My walk continues. I see that the macroeconomics grew, what allows to many youths to wash cars in the streets. Of these schools of social washes the new man will be born, adapted to the new life. With the cloths they dry her would plate, one more product finishing is ready for delivery. Of cigarettes in the mouth change impressions.
- Do you know where the king is?
- I know! He is of visit deprived in the whites.
- He left us without light.
- My mother when she pays the bill, she claims that we were many days in the dark, and that the value to pay should decrease, but it is the opposite. she arises a lot.
- When the king returns we will be illuminated.

The economic growth is factual. A group of wolf she-wolfs floozy the development of the economy. In the children's of the prostitution precocious infantile surrender, spare the persecution of the wolves.
In the entrance of a building it is heard metallic noise. One gushes of vertical water appears. A displeased youth wants to know that happens.
- Mingo, because it is that you made this?!
- I broke the faucet with a stone, because they don't want to give me the key of the padlock. I have cars to wash.
- And who will the flood clean?
- I don't know.
Two fast motorcycles pass in great speed. Without escape, the noise provokes headaches. The alarms of the parked cars shoot. I cover the ears with the fingers.
In the window of a building the conditioned air burns. The boobies at the distance rub shoulders. Some affirm with immense pride.
- It is well done! It is well done! They like to live at the buildings.

Image: Angola in pictures

The Epic poem of the Darkness (17)

Luanda - The condominium Jinga Isabel is split, there is still little inaugurated time. Was it built (?) for a Brazilian company. He remains to know the name of the company. In TV ZIMBO.
And when the buildings and do towers begin also split her? It is that when the time of the rains arrives, and the tendency is to rain plus, more and more, many sheets underground waters win current, they relive. Literally, Luanda settles on an underground river.


To buy car is to increase one more hole to the storm of our not to live… how to navigate without sea. The highways are not necessary but, it can be admitted that 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 precocious, 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, they will never know him. The main prizes are holes and mires. Streets dug due to the intense search of the evil feelings oils-producing.

Oh! What nights, those festivals, those mothers with suites of sparrows, where you do walk? The child is ahead, disastrous hurried. He stops, he turns, it incites the course. The mother carries the age of the dictatorship of the suffering, without lament. In the head, a load that doesn't relieve the survival of the unconsciousness of the government oil-producing. In the backs, it overloads the recent weight of the born unhappiness, fallen asleep. For the hand, the child's annoyance crawls diligent in the against-hand of removing the bread of the mouth. He is the mother, of the mothers of the now black settlers of the black poverty. Of the obscure days, of the inextinguishable nights orgiastic of the palatial politics. Ó black poverty, certainly in the uncertain you walk. In the flooded streets of oilfields, black pastures, black grasslands that are not to eat, nor to drink.

Many poets, lawyers, economists and few engineers. Illiterate people will never be independent. Knowledge is freedom. The poverty is black, of the colour of the petroleum. The temporary power is momentary, the spiritual is eternalized.


I threw my mobile for the garbage. I avoid the assaults, I want to walk usually, I don't want to be without life eternally. To win the attackers' present and to lose the future. In spite of many metric safeties that they keep what doesn't belong them, the uneasiness is marshy. Many safeties, a lot of insecurity. Everything so uncomfortable, abundant. The garbage is superabundant, the buckets of the filthy waters cook him. Colossal columns of garbage cans sculpted as the stables of Augeias. Jingola hired Hercules for the last thirteenth task… to end with the garbage. It would be pay with several gold fleeces. He didn't get, it gave up, he got loose furious because twenty-eight signatures were commissioned. I don't know, we don't know, nobody gets to explain to me, to understand that regime is this that governs us. I think it is a regime with the governments' equalitarian, totalitarian existent smells of all in the world. Universalized, entangled.

He passes not vulgar administrator's vulgar escort. A priest to cut, escorted fake kindness, distinguish of the plot that the doctors of our slippery destiny him inveigh. The escort of the fear, insecure, fearsome, it falls down in the unprotected, disguised enemy potential, that it disturbs, it inhibits the passage of the more than similar I court funereal. The priest is beaten and blessed for the power timeless. Immolated in the execution of superior orders, sanctioned by inferior. In the establishment of Politburo Jingola's satanic ritual, enchanting barbarism of imitation of the civilized jungle. The pilgrims moved of their shrines. The embondeiro dried the mabuba also.

Image: Angola in pictures

The Epic poem of the Darkness (16)

In the kingdom Jingola everything that is official and official-general is legal. Everything the plus, including the population, it is illegal.


It is mediocrity, when subjects are not approached with depth. The more the politicians speak, more they are studied and fewer listened. Many words many dreams. The brains of the listeners jump for another audience. They abandon the politicians of vertical body and horizontal soul. Black's Africa illustration is a favorable adventure for adventurers. Always concordant with the rulers' simplicity. And the interlude of the poverty and of the hunger they continue in all of the moments, in the posters with gigantic pictures that deceive the voter’s voters. In them, the democratic words: where has bread and books, there is democracy.

To believe in the politicians is as living at a ready building to tumble. And they are so many (the buildings). As the generals in the power, widespread democracy, militarized. With two desires, two faces. Which of them, which of them?! Rude deliberate, good irresponsible, moulded and done condition. As monks in phalanstery’s and secret societies that they insist on molding us, to dominate our minds. There are no good rulers, just men that execute the desire, the will of the people.

A scientist Jingola said that the population is famous for his illiteracy. That they were not entitled the instruction. That, and because of the hunger he discovered that they only used ten percent of the brain.

Don't I know how to distinguish if the water that drags the garbage is, or is the opposite?! Do I Sand, water and food. In the daily transfusion to the Nation, the boom of the cholera expanded thirty thousand infected and carnage of almost thousand. The planned action of the rains will publish the epidemic all of a sudden. In the avid earth for corpses, the cholera will decrease when the population makes scarce.


I took shelter in a container to it despairs her that the rain discouraged. To obtain such permission I bought a beer. I felt that my breathing was hindered due to the tobacco that vulcanize in the interior. Only two small windows in the ends veiled the ventilation. I moved for the closest, it was, it seemed the tobacco of Vesuvius. I looked at the youth that faked to be used. I tried to defend.
- Of where come so much tobacco?
- Of the generators.
- We will die intoxicated. I suppose that there is delight in this.
- It is that! One is of the general, the other belongs to an upstart of the bakery. Already grumble, gave me the importance of the contempt. Kingdom governed by generals is like this. I arose to the sanitary gods' castle, they threatened me with the death. The threats became so vulgar. I believe that should change the name for kingdom of the threats. This people are like Napoleon, he is everything of them, and they think that they are invincible.
- New colonizer, new mentors.
- One more African field of the death, one more quilombo of skulls.

The eyes began me to burn, the throat to condescend. I fled for under an awning that served as house to two families that were without house. It was destroyed by a prince to build a mansion. He could take shelter of the rain was done expense. There was only beer. The rain appeased. Of here to Tule, more or less in Viana, I will have to turn back about twenty kilometres.

Image: Angola in pictures

The Epic poem of the Darkness (15)

Jingola Kingdom, a kingdom where everything is illegal.

And in this world mental hospital with millions of unemployed, the thieves, shavers speculators say that the world economy is to stabilize. It proves the ascent of the prices of the petroleum of that is. And nobody arrests them because no longer law exists.


In spite of the tired body, used, old for the years of the time, the mind is rejuvenated. The dictator uses the healthy body in the insane mind. As harmful plants that they vituperate the suspended gardens of this Babylonia. No matter how much we try didn't get to avoid the persecution of Robespierre. The reign of the Terror persists, it insists, he doesn't abandon us. That times these! No, the History teaches us that it was always like this. The human being is the symbol, the cult of the Terror.

When it ends, the Nature will rejoice, she will sing a praise hymn. The trees won't be static, they will move of one for the other side, as always they did. The rain will fall and the waters will follow her normal course. There won't be dikes to disturb them. To the rivers free from pollution they will return the fairies, and the spirits of the waters will be reborn. The Nature will meet again the freedom, it will return to the normality. It was already given to the human being the time more than enough to respect their fellow creatures. No, I don't refer to the men, because he enters these no there are laws that work, I speak about a simple bird that lowers her flight, he is with a biped one and it is abated without explanation. What is in cause is the following: the Nature cannot share her healthy existence, with vile beings that they are delighted in exterminating everything that moves.

I found the morning to middle in the wharf of Kapossoca. The sky forced the day to darken. The water deserted of the firmament and the horizon was foggy. Intense rain, centimetre, seemed millions of meteorites that opened transparent craters in the surface neptunium.
Will I get Tule to arrive?
Many dangers wait for me, but I will have success in this epic poem. When there to arrive will admire the Columns of Hercules in Viana. I don't know who was the purposed that he called such name to two immense garbage mountains.
For besides them he is the stranger… some Phoenician merchants that once in a while here arrive, they say that for there of the Columns of Hercules seventeen kingdoms exist, governed by praetor. The information that they give is very scarce. What is not known there happens.
In child he heard to talk about those ignored kingdoms, forgotten, abandoned. That nobody if it worried with them. I began to dream that they would be the lost continent of Atlantis.

So many cars for few made holes in highways, permanently bottled. I will never get to understand because it is that Jingola doesn't appreciate bicycles. They combine with the centuries, with the loads in the head without wheels, always to the wheel.

The heart of my spirit tries to free of the surrounding disorder. The garbage anger joins to the trees dropped by the inhuman force. The flowerbeds got lost in the imposition of the concrete construction sites, of the new builders beloveds. Other builders and many eaters of dogs, cats and of everything that moves. Rudimentary genetic weltanschauung, truncated.

The guideless years pass, no mandated continue the tyrants. Tell them that who annihilates a tree; it will be condemned to plant them to the end of his life.
Ah!.. Many banks, many financial, many corrupt, many speculators, many adventurers.

The Epic poem of the Darkness (14)

It is not necessary to go the a circus for us to laugh us with the clowns. It is enough look for instance for TV and to hear the ambassador of Portugal speak about the relationships of friendship among the two people.


It is the best exit to save what remains, what still lives. To end with the word entrepreneur to begin. They are these the demons that they survived in the battle of the skies against Gabriel, and they fell in the Earth hidden. The humanity's sufferings, the hunger, they are in their hands. We should put an end to them. They were served as the Christianity, they took possession of Holly Graal and of their secrets, for us to dominate us. These are the initiate of the human cruelty, for that it is explained that along the times several secret societies were created to avoid the extinction of the human race. The humanity's fight, the revolutions, the wars… it develops this millenarian antagonism: society’s secret maids to resist to the annihilation of the dictatorial power, to the prohibition of the development of the ideas. It was like this against Voltaire…

We walked, we moved in the as invisible beings. Nobody gives bill, it seats our presence. If randomly somebody trips in our shadow, he turns, it peeps, and it awaits undecided. He discovers that it was something… as a sudden thick fog that it appeared of the anything. He thinks that was maybe some tree foliage inconvenienced by the pedestrians anonymous that he wants to recall the times has been passing very, forgotten, when the green leaves that fell, they were worshipped, lovers, goddesses generated by the Earth-mother. The people's crowd to walk her habitually without a destination is very impersonal. The children cross with the parents, they are not recognized. Better, they make zoo gestures. Because he enters human beings in the streets and animals in captivity no there is any difference. Just one: the prison of the species in captivity is small, the grating of the prison of the human species are immense.
We boasted with pleasure that finish us with the slavery. When in our morbid proverbial ingenuousness we don't want to accept the supreme truth: We are slaves eternal of the physiologic and biological needs of our body. Our mind is poor, humble servant, before the most elementary need of the human physiology. This is the most merciless human servitude.

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. His brain tries to transmit the pleasant sensations of the melody that it hovers. He gets to drag, to stop in his road 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.

Our thought is immaterial; it appears of the empty space. However it gets to materialize object’s, utensils, what invented and we used. In the doubt if God exists, I believe that our thought is an answer. If we created matter starting from ours to think, here is the explanation for the existence of the divine. God is not matter, our mind also not. Therefore our thought is God. Yes, without we give ourselves bill, we are to accomplish the most elementary of our existence: our ethereal soul accomplishes the Creator's function; it participates in the greatness and smallness of the Universe. Our inspiration is the execution of orders Superior emanates of the headquarters of I control, placed somewhere in the Universe.

Those deep lakes where the conscience, the essence of the human life rests. Some healthy of transparent waters, others of marshy waters. Some, few, they are of calm waters. Other, most, they are of waters agitated, violent. The violent ones ask the winds to make storms, and annihilate the spirits of the waters of the calm wisdom. The knowledge agitates the violent. As the glacial cold that he forces us to seek a homelike refuge. The human lakes of the violence and of the intolerance they disturb us the peace. Even in the nights the justness of the sleep is us denied, interrupted, because a secret lake overflowed. The wave of the new guillotine walks fast to our bed, and it cuts the head, one plus, of any recent conscience. As a ship moored at the wharf of the expected bitterness, and later devastated, lifted up and transported in the air, for the furious trunks, sudden of an elephantine hurricane.

The Epic poem of the Darkness (13)

Omar Bongo's successor is her son. And in Angola?

Everything became pregnant for us to sadden ourselves. From the most microscopic to the most gigantic and an incessant fight for the survival in the Universe happens. To obtain energy, as soon as the solar light appears, it is the race in the search of something to eat. It is worth everything, because the animal species, the stars, the planets, the galaxies, pursue what gives them the life. Some struggle in the daytime other at night. Twenty-four hours without eternity, the fight for the survival wakes up, alert.

The alive surge of the life of the waves of the sea that pursues us. Colliding constant with the sand of the margins that cyclic comes undone, and later they return to the normality without human intervention. The Nature accomplishes her destiny, the human being alters it, it adulterates it. As revenge, the sea appeals for their companions in earth, and it spills her fury against the one that dare challenge him. It was like this, it will be like this. The aleive to the death is characteristic of the humans. Cruel destiny without exit. To be born, not to live.

That misfortune enough interesting. The talent that the humans conserve from the ancestry. They don't forget him never. The mortal morbidity that they conserve in their genes. The kept order, disguised, hidden, that it is always to the peep in the window of their minds, that of her leaves to kicks: to kill, to kill, to kill! It is not resulted, the alternative of the hypocrisy jumps, that changes in the uselessness of the lie. Before this truth, the slander comes, that gives life to the hate, to the cruelty. To court this acme, to affirm in face of the winners, to deceive his unhealthy mind, it eliminates with the death, those that they gave him the projection for the pedestals of the life. This is the genetic subjection, the saga of the due ones. Deadly sharks that annihilate the Road.

This continuous path nobody gets to stop. Astute mice in the silence of the nights. If more obscure better. Shadows dissembling prophetical are born of their dreams, of the nights in that they didn't sleep. The crowds proceed in the stupids, they adore us, they are immolated at the altar invented already. Sad horizon of the human camouflage. To live to adore, the hunger to sow.
It is not alone war and hunger that it exists in the intervals of the soccer-art.

A thing that I saw and I never understood. The people almost spend the whole time of their lives for us to get any thing to eat. This doesn't make sense, it is absurd. Nobody that she respect would be born, to live like this so unhappy.
Which is the alternative?

Machines that make any work exist. Be ordained that the humans should obey to the spiritual things. To workout and to develop the mind. Daily, at least once, to breathe bottom, to relax, to close the eyes and not to think in anything during one minute. For beginning, that is extraordinary. Our brain thinks day and night, it is enough to stop one minute for the mind to rest.

It is contrary to the life to be born, to grow, and to work to increase the wealth of half dozen that they enslave there are us many milleniums. The work in the factories, everything that it is work, should finish immediately. We will put an end to the buildings, with the asphalt highways, with the canned foods, with the plastics, with the petroleum. We will plant trees, plants, to clean the seas, the rivers, the forests and to live in agreement with the laws of the Nature.

The Epic poem of the Darkness (12)

And the love also disappeared of the radars.

It is easy to see, in fact it is noticed at the distance. After the king's death, Angola for succession right passes, divided by the children, for the princes heirs and Voters. It is a democracy reinante.


The times changed a lot, they are always to change… the human being no… it worsened a lot. In the certainty that the family succumbed, she is inexistent. Each one that escapes, is the existence rule that I don't remember who invented. Of course is easy to know who was. Of certainty that was a banker or a speculator. In spite of having forced to eat tons of daily information, however we are alone. Abandoned in the great epidemic of the hunger and of the unemployment. Are millions or will billions be? The numbers always increase her! It was this the promise of the technical miracles of the science for the year 2.000!

Do I await the end of my days, it is not that what happens to all?!
I remember Mark Twain and of the comparison that did between a man and a mouse: "No... it would be to do an injustice to the mouse."
And between a man and a dog: "if you welcome a starving dog and you give him comfort, he won't bite" you.
"When you arrive to the door of the Sky, he leaves your dog outside.
The one that interests is to portray the human being's cruelty. Personally if they gave me to choose between a man and a lion, he would choose the lion soon. Because I know it well, while the man is full of guiles, and only too late met him, we unmasked it.

Because it is that the mice invade the men's houses? Because these steal, they make disloyal competition to the mice, they imitate us, and the unhappy mice don't accept the social exclusion.
He wants want wants not, we always participated in the war of Troy. Everything that up to now happened, of those times, they are imitations that we insisted on them to persist. Who doesn't know the war of Troy, unfortunately, without feeling bill, it will finish in that tragedy. This is the destiny, our destiny. First the New State, later the Revolution of the Carnations and the poverty calendar her. No there are liberators, descolonises. There is renewal of oppressors in the liberation fights.

In Jingola, the honest citizen that he likes to work, have ideas for the community's good, that reveals wisdom, the power accuses him of unpatriotic person, and briefly judged, executed with the seclusion feather.

Two arrived morning. I am going to the window attract for the noise of the rain. But that great shower. It is so imposing that the street seems a river.
She makes to remember my epic poem, my kingdom, that he still lives in the eternity of the past, he gets confused or it lives together with the present, in search of his future. I can affirm that he tries to survive of the archeological ruins. We lived lost in the time present, mixed, shuffled in the past and in the future.

It is not necessary to study a lot to know that there are oceans of abundant idiots.
We are so small before so much immensity. And however, we persisted that we are gigantic, that we are the best ones. We doubted, we didn't accept our origins. Only almost in the hour of the death we remembered the uselessness of our life. On that hour, on that moment, we returned to our true aspirations, but it is too late. We want to return, but the return is eternally postponed. Then during some minutes, some seconds, we remembered the life finally. We lived to remember some tenuous moments before the death. That is the true life.

Image: http://olhares.aeiou.pt/jasmins_foto1854489.html

The Epic poem of the Darkness (11)

I don't remember who told me that: The organized dictatorship gives us some bread, but it remove us the freedom. The democracy gives us the freedom remove us the bread and it freezes us the bank accounts.

Maybe be mere conjecture of politicians that habitually drive us to the misfortune. I remember his propaganda: The political program didn't sound out of tune, it was summarized: we "want our money! "

I saw that if they spent million, billions of dollars in the soccer players' purchase. And the hungry persons in the lawn fields felt at Olympus, invited by their gods of the ball.

I never imagined a kingdom, with coup d'état daily, permanent.

The cruelty won't triumph. We have to squeeze the infamy.

He ends that: if I don't get to survive in a world of absurd cruelty, it is because I am autistic.

The largest mistake than I committed in my life… it went to have trusted the human beings. Then, I began in search of the lost love.

That love Borgiano in that: all of the points of the love are contained in only one point.

Of where come the thought? How do they arise the loving passions?

In the human being, in the mistake of the Creation, of the evolution. And they continue to produce millions of machines for us to destroy us.

The planet Earth was happy, organized, until that the such thing that somebody remembered to call human being appeared. The species that only thinks about destroying to the arrival.

To be discovered the origin of the creative thought will be immortal.

In search of the origin of the creative thought… it is so distant, it is so close, it is here to my side, so close of me… it is the love. We thought because we loved.

Our fellow creatures got a notable feat, worthy of his species. They prohibited to enjoy us of the pleasures of the Nature

The animals respect the human beings, these are despised immense. They are exterminated, they abate everything that moves. We are the first of her list. They have the genetic fatality, as the worshipers of the Evil, that they seat immense happiness in seeing to suffer his fellow creature. This is part of his genetic code that it is: 000 or 0,000.

In 1835, Thomas Babington Macaulay, decided to end with the literary values of India. He intended his millenarian inheritance to disappear of the civilization.

An English commander exterminated several Indian tribes during the American colonization, with the virus of the smallpox in blankets.

Let us make the man to our image, accordingly to our similarity;

And it created the man to her image:

Fructify and multiply, and fill the earth, and subject her;

The horrible that it exists in the dictatorships, it is separating of the families. They seat immense pleasure, in destroying everything to be family bows.

There is who thinks to remove the genes of the cruelty to the birth.

The Humanity's History is the history of the human jungle.

The one that some men invent, for us to dominate the other ones, it cannot be taken seriously. As the apocalyptic vision… everyday, of Christ's second arrival, eternally postponed.

Naively I asked a doctor friend, because it is that the famous heart surgeon, Dr. Christiaan Barnard, died of a heart attack. He answered me: "With the age, the heart gets old… it accomplished his mission."

Image: http://olhares.aeiou.pt/jasmins_foto1201822.html

The Epic poem of the Darkness (10)

Jingola Kingdom also very known by kingdom of the Conferences.

I came to the world in the kingdom Jingola, one more quilombo of concentration of income… and clear somewhere in the Golf of Guinea. I live together with the cynicism and the hypocrisy that cross Monte Kilimanjaro. I don't get to distinguish if it is a kingdom, a republic, or a principality. Also nobody knows what is, or what will be. Actualmente is an enclosed island of fortifications everywhere. He has petroleum, diamonds, a radio, a television, and a newspaper. And the roughness of the nobility is for life.

It is me extremely difficult to walk constantly under sharpened them, pointed threads of the pipes of the weapons always pointed and that to the smallest shout… bang! bum! crash!
Of a side hunger, of the other poverty. For top state of siege, underneath repression. Behind police, ahead prison. It is arduous, the tyrants say, it is the road of the desolation. *
* (allusion to the work of W.S. Maugham, THE Razor Edge. N.A.)

Sincerely… I don't understand! First the Portuguese, later the Russians, Cuban and more the one of the communist European East. To follow some black ones colluded again with the Portuguese, Brazilian and Chinese.

The Portuguese and some black ones drag me again for the wood, to pick lash. They tied my hands again, they undressed me again in the waist. Again with the whip they beat me in the backs, it seems serpent, and they stretched out her of sharp language. The neocolonialism throws her with force, again, as if it was a dart. My backs already have hardening from being hit. I avoid with difficulty that doesn't beat me in the breasts, because I fear to be ugly. Because later my prince won't date myself, to haul up the bowline, I will abandon myself and he will say: your breasts, the settlers stole you… then turn for them…. I don't want you!

After the first whippings no longer I feel pain. I divert the thought for the deepest of my forest, and there it is the river of my childishness. I see myself in him to fish her, and later fish to dry. And I am enchanted with my song: what seems a bird xirico disenchants me, it torments me.


I am super tired, awaiting the eternal moment. Seating, installed in my voltaire. The night looks at me sideways, convict of my vain magnificence. Only the nights are magnificent, eternal, we are just their invited ephemera.

Because it is that our brain feels happy when does he "hear" music?
It lacks serenity in this cursed world, and always for some threatened. The History teaches us the sameness. I misunderstand because we left ourselves for them to dominate, to enslave. If they are always the same ones, and do we already know him, because we accepted her eternal condemnation of they kill us to the hunger? It is because we liked to live in the eternal violence of the revolutions. We liked to diffuse, to struggle with weapons to kill, to do endless revolutions because of the hunger. We finished a revolution… and we feel bill again, that our teeth don't have anything to chew. We are the eternal idiots of the History.

Image: Angola em fotos

The Epic poem of the Darkness (9

Introduction

To live is to arise in the mountains of the steep to suffer.
To live is the eternal to wait of despairing to die.

No! You will never be converted but, a statue will be you erected, driven. To convert sounds is to communicate with our soul. The world is overcrowded and however we felt very alone. We continued oppressed by the solitude. We are, we hid that we continued alone in this Universe very close of the crowds, but distant of what we loved.

They remain us the prisons of our hearts. The inventions that she do shorten the distances. We travelled very fast for any point of the globe, but our hearts continue in the flotation, hesitant more distant.

No! You won't be converted, squeezed. You are always omniscient... and surfaced, flooded with kisses of the seeds progenitors' of the inclement longings peace. As a ship to navigate in the sea of the longing.

Next times it will be impossible to conceive long term plans because they wrap us in golden paper. We continued in the inhospitable march of the end of one more civilization. Because we were born in the blessing of the illusion. The specialists of the wickedness are in the throne again.

We tried, we struggled for us to be happy but the lethal doses of the political intolerance, religious person, and social and economic strengthen. The men's public powers that in the healthy mismanage as the pandemonium of the canned traffic that it remains of coiling of the cities.

This is the decade of the corruption, of the genetic conspiracy that sheltered, it put beardless in the power. And they will ruin, to file this civilization.

Ah!.. AND for the more time will continue like this (?)

Being wicked by nature, which is the human being's usefulness?

And there was a time, this, actual, that inexplicably ignorant were only born. The time of the contrarily to the century of the lights, this is the century of the darkness. Until the old democracy of Albion it succumbed. We needed a new political system. More democracy no, never, never.

The Epic poem of the Darkness (8)

Introduction

"In the work "Viragem" of Castro Soromenho, in a dialogue that is uncoiled between a granddaughter and his grandmother, arrivals of Portugal in the colonial era, the granddaughter told the grandmother: Africa would be better if she didn't have so many illnesses, illiteracy and other malice’s." The grandmother answered: Africa is Africa, because of this perversity, if she didn't have all this would not be my Africa granddaughter… "
In Domingos of Cruz in it Folha 8

OBVIOUS
Everything is an absurdity, one without sense. Ruler’s make a fool of in the power, solemnly ornamented by the superstition and deception of the religion. And huge doses of soccer stadiums. It is this the social development and economic world.

Democracy is the monumental robbery better organized of all of the times to the global scale. Democracy is the political system invented by politicians, bankers, corrupt and speculators.

The modern democracy doesn't pass of a brave dictatorship. In the reality that exists it is a subtle association of criminals properly legalized before the law. The political parties don't pass of associations of malefactors because in the power they kill us to the hunger, while they are going enriching easily due to the millions of unemployed that dismiss. Before such, who still dares to speak of democracy?

What competes to the workers is take the power and they put an end to the politicians' mob, bankers, corrupt and speculators. This yes it is that it is democracy! The banks have to be nationalized, they be in being able to of the State, never, never in the private hands because they subvert the power, they promote the chaos in the world economy. As brotherhoods of the evil.

Democracy is to concentrate the whole illicit wealth in the power of half dozen of fools. Yes! Because they are said that who is rich is intelligent. Pure lie! The rich stole, it spoiled. It is not like this that the hungry persons' dying armies are explained? They are rich because the laws protect us for they steal us and they reinforce us with forces policemen and military.

They kill us, they terrify us with the hunger, at the same time that they throw us dogs police, horses, shock police, special groups of assault. The whole military paraphernalia never view. Democracies of pigs, of imbecile and rabbles.

And the champions of the democracy are friends, supports of dictatorial corrupt regimes that they arrest and they eliminate political opponents or who expresses contrary opinion.