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.

segunda-feira, 13 de julho de 2009

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

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