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.

quarta-feira, 23 de setembro de 2009

The Epic poem of the Darkness (30)

There are more religious sects than sowed fields. Endless sowings without farmers. A lot of seed, few farmers. The religious sects don't teach to cultivate fields, they live of the believers' hunger. Sects with surprise churches. The voices of the followers they collapse, the heads and the hearts break as basements. Mens divinior, the divine influx! I remembered this, because I approach my friend's house, Bishop Eden. He is a sovereign well. Dictate the bridge of the postulate of his social brotherhood: "The churches grow proportionally to the amount of existent illiterates". There are rich suitcases, followers decimated, prepared. A lot of manna of the obsessed ones, that well used in the agriculture-livestock would extirpate the material hunger of the exodus. Of certainty that arrived, it is already here. I will listen to him, to reverence him.

Bishop Eden prayed at a mansion that was her reserved extensively. Offensively wall and reinforced with safeties. Always the to work, to enlarge spaces. To drop walls, to build other because the borders expanded. Approach or ignored interference was fatal adventure. Some soul-harmed they tried to profane the shrine, but you hide video cameras always vigilant, they filmed them the inglorious moments. The end, in a hole of ignored earth, that it strengthens the alive ones and it collects the deads.
Shy, face the face with a cautious safety with the hand in the gunstock of the pistol, that insinuates to jump of her thigh. I relive the image of the nostalgic time of the Border, later transported for films. He felt cowboy of the western, hero of the western. The safety defended with habitual distrust.
- Thanks to who?
- With Bishop Eden.
- Name of the identity ticket?
- Jasmine of the Night.
- Quiet down one moment.

The gate of bars of steel spaced. I ventured for the interior, and the gate rested intramural. It arrived me a twinge of indisposition. Two dogs move of warning, they bark. They impose frozen respect, they seem pure wolves. The sanguine pressure of my heart stabilized, when I assured that the canid, was harnessed, controlled by safeties. Before the entrance door, to the left, I spy an enormous cross cemented with the registration: THAT GOD LISTENS TO YOU!

I entered in an enormous room, and they informed me that the venerable would not delay. I sat down to observe the atmosphere. There were a lot of images of saints and crosses that seemed to do part of a collection. Everything in dimness to impregnate the suggestion of mysticism. The priest with mask divine, of shiny appearance as if it has just gone down of the sky, he toasts me:
- Ó Jasmine of the Night! Welcome mine!
I got up mentally blessed. I let my smallness to appear, before so much pastoral greatness. We congratulated ourselves with parsimony. He throws me the probe:
- Do you come in pilgrimage?
- I seek the lost paradise.
- It is that element that misses the church. Hum, hum, a lost paradise that it returns to Eden that pleases me a lot. Great… the Church Veni, Vidi, Vici, and Bishop Eden bless you.

My attention went to a shop window with fragments of bones, olive tree leaves, remains of Jesus Christ's tunic, olive oil, water, earth, remains of wood of crucified Jesus' cross. It was a museum of the study of Christ. For poor it devotes like me, it constituted a plot that inspired to unmask, to clarify, to enter in the occult religious person.

Image: EL PAÍS

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