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, much underground water 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 precociously, 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 main prizes are holes and mires. Streets dug due to the intense search of the evil feelings oils-producing.
Oh! What nights, that festivals, that 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 cellular cell 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 Aegis. 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, he doesn't notice of the plot that the doctors of our slippery destiny they sentence him. 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 em fotos