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, 11 de novembro de 2009

The Epic poem of the Darkness (60). Jasmine without Cottage

Abandoned in a tent (?) without street, nude
spoiled somewhere in the Golf of Guinea
I lost the encounter, the millenarian charm
The silence, the ardour and my sweet glance
No longer I get more to cry

I keep apart the moonlight of my hair
in the river, dominated by the Mister of the cottages
Here lies the silence of their margins
Only, in the moonlight of the nights
I won't get more to love

I adore the silence of the mornings
and the sonority of the leaves of the plants
the rain falls me on top
I am planted at a desert
it is this that he sees himself on the whole side
this is the balance of the fight without liberation
of the upstarts' oppression
of the rottenness of these rich ones

I await the goddess Kalunga
that he resurrect of the bottom of the waters
and alert the genius of the jasmines
of the cottages
to change
to perfume
Everyday with and without tomorrows
I scream for the new settlers
I await the avenging sword
She Liberator!

Suddenly they contribute the ships
already before navigated
They left with new exiled
but, they returned of the Westerner civilization
and again
they banish me of the cottages

He lived with the flowers, with the jasmines
yellows, blue, brilliant
emperors, of the rivers
of the poets, stars, green, red

I asked God of the forests
that it navigated me in a ship done of jasmines
That it fecundated me in his semen
in a deep forest of jasmines

It is in the morning when the moon wakes up
of her nocturnal sleep
she will find me to sing
And she will do a statue of me
And it will turn off, she won't leave tracks
of these tyrants' graves

I will be the sowing of the new love
that my Angola lost
lost, sunk in the multinationals
of the new property gentlemen
I will water myself with the tears
of our unhappy people
Without love
subdued, spoiled, chained
Enslaved by the millionaire children
of the King

I will be sanctified by the genius
of the in love ones in Angola
finally freed
And the birds they will fly always in my pollen
and forever I will be blessed
The perfume of my pistil will be immortalized
and next days
Our freedom will be praised

Image: Angola em fotos

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