I heard a great scientist he to affirm that this is the civilization of the psyche,
the psyche of the money. Easier, to enrich fast
it is enough to remove a course of those that it explains as curing the mind.
We are to generate stupid children for psychiatric internment
There is a somatic degeneration due to the phobias
that they constantly devastate the mind.
It is almost a miracle to sleep in peace. The genetic functions lose temper
because the sleep doesn't get to be reparative
All are patient, we woke up at any moment of the night with nightmares
We didn't get to sleep plus, and if we insisted woke up with violent spasms
Because we didn't get to remove the concerns that dominate our brain
This, when the clarity of the day appears is as drunk
As if it has just gushed a whiskey bottle
In the attempt of helping is smoked a cigarette, later other
Next nights will be continuous as a virgin forest,
where appears excavating that deforest the reparative sleep of the nights
The exit appears: the tranquilizers that result in the beginning
but later they drain us the existence
Because peace doesn't exist for the mind
The generated children of this mutation without the planetary green,
that it existed, they receive the progenitors' gifts and her mission is very simple:
They destroy the neighbourhoods, the cities, the countries, the Earth
There is nothing… nor nobody that is not buried
In the commissions of the corruptions sectorials that fill
diluted them oilfields of the hunger
Oh! As you denature you
He finished the swindle of the independence
I washed clothes again. I got job as laundress
I wash and I starch. I returned to the colonial past because then! My fight with the tank
of scrubbing the fabrics it doesn't stop
I don't get to win the tank. There is always clothes to put him and to wash,
and to I iron to pass, to starch. You me she doesn't leave me of eating lunch
With hunger I leave weak, almost to faint
My White Jasmine! You went and you left, you abandoned me to your Jasmine of the Night
You were as a lute without Medium Age. You won't hear the hummingbirds
You won't see more the prodigy of the balance of yours to suck
Nor the hot tides that you extend, horizontal
And vertical under the growth of mangroves. They alarm, they call the crabs of the tides
That they uncover leave her of yours dig flooded
They walk as spiders in the tide-flood, marginal routine
You won't see me more to wave in the intense green of the grass. Without you, I felt
the last memory of my bikini. In the rocking frequency of the marine fragrance
Image: Etona. http://www.artistas.angoladigital.net/etona/index.htm#
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