- The economical growth is a very rich father, an eternal president and with the children in the insult of the hunger.
- Without books there is no development, there is no job.
- By chance there are universities for unemployed? It is that, I always play in the it equips of them, I put many goals, and they tell me that I am lost. I don't get to play in that equips. I don't belong to the class of the ones that receive superior orders, because it means that we lived as inferior. My Penelope is already old, she sells any thing for us to survive. Our two children and the daughter follow the determination of the red wine. You know… in Jingola the only freedom that remains is to caress us, to turn with the fingers, glasses with any hotchpotch that drinks. It saddens me the certainty that any learned of our feather writes on our glorious facts. Us… yes… us… glorious alcoholic, we have a lot of odysseys to live, for who wants to narrate them. Many, endless books would become full... they would build a library of the size of a great city. Our day by day gives to write a literary work, where the author would win - of shadow and fresh water - the Nobel Prize the Literature.
- Dreams of an alcoholic one are not taken into account.
He reappeared the similarity of the lute of the medieval round to tinkle. He was the neighbour that took advantage to supply the extenuating circumstance. The drunk with the awarded mind, it was congratulated, it imagined princess with xanto, and it imagines her:
Princess of shaking, brewer
They left the daggers Septembers and Novembers
to become rusty
The seeds of your eyes got lost
in the sad green fertilizer, without books
They are always your sad eyes
without precautionary measure
You are probability, deceased without cry, it represents ornamental
The nights are delayed, mordants night and day
Slaves, in the backs loaded of rounds children
Your lips hardened without future
Only of out outside, of out inside not
My sadness flies, he only sees desolation,
in the nation
Everything wasted by the party and no distributed
Without beating feet they don't walk, they turn back
Everything is obstructed, gnawed
Everything of closed facade, frozen
The sadness of contemplating poets
of bottled poetry
Independent slaves' poems
in the mortal poets' homeland
Always the same voices rise
crestfallen in the repeated intentions
The atmosphere reminded alcoholic ship that it lost the rudder, balanced in the crests of the waves. He still had not reached the depth wanted abyssal. As the reports of IMF, right equations, wrong politics.
Divine dreams for who he knows how to liquefy. - He drifted Ulysses.
The neighbour makes an effort for to use what remains him of the vocal chords. Luckily the mind it collaborates.
Image: Angola em fotos