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.

quinta-feira, 14 de janeiro de 2010

The Epic Poem of the Darkness (100). Alienated, already very deflowered, young with and less than fourteen years of youth

The coffin promoted the deceased imbecile funeral
Of the destructor of nations and populations
and skilled merchant of weapons
He deceived us in this world, he won't deceive in the other
The funeral was accompanied by the crowd
of flatterers
And half dozen of noblemen that with him a lot they profited
Following by their flunkies as in a pharaoh
The illiterates continued, they followed him as a god
Believing in the hope of the changes
Of the new lives that he a lot had promised

Further on it followed another funereal procession. The one of a Man
whose occupation was to give life, to democratize, to teach
They accompanied him thousands of people
the one that knew pick his wisdom
For here already nobody league the those things
They lost those teachings

However, in the beach, the seagull believed that she was alone
As if the sea and the dictators didn't exist
She approached confident and she came across
with a despicable ruler. Suddenly she remembered
she gave déjà-vu
She forgot the shellfish and she flew for a lot of miles
She left me to grieve. Before the vile banks
corrupt there they be, her already there had been

The illusion of the love is the loved person's slavery
There, we never obtain what desired
In that complex dimension
It is a dead end that begins in the words
and they join in the time when he begins the counting
you gave moments that seem endless

In very distant times that of the love didn't exist
somebody invented him
As any invention the speculators vulgarized him
And it is bought, he sells himself, it is resold
in any place of a withered street, it embitters, nude

Another love that walks exists has been losing a lot
Pure, innocent, difficult to find
It is not bought, he doesn't sell himself, it is conquered
How many, so many of those lost loves
without days, in the nights
Made machines generating metallic children
He abandoned his origin, he got lost in the official mazes
artificial of our presidential ordinances

The wind seemed cold
he devastated the afternoon sent by the cold current
of Olympic Benguela
Alienated, already very deflowered, young with and less than fourteen years
of youth, they are attracted by the miseries dollars of the monetary sex
of these upstarts
For they dress and they eat
They hovered as sparrows in search of the newly born children

The children danced in the sand of the garbage
The tree contemplated them, it accompanied them
she moved them, it sheltered them
The bulky foot screeched, smile before so much childishness
Van-Gogh he painted this unhappiness in the garbage of the sand

Reason the idiots insist on the power how emperors?
Because they are as the camera of filming, it captures, but he doesn't read
To paint is to free, to democratize what nobody sees


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