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, 6 de janeiro de 2010

The Epic Poem of the Darkness (91). No there is, nor do I believe in the mysteries of the ministries of the Angolan women's promotions

I find this so vulgar, that I don't know if I should narrate.
They were only left
My family… some died in the containers of weapons in Liberia
Other in Sierra Lioness’s cutlasses, other in Somalia shot
My parents and my children in Angola bombed
And I don't know more how many in the cadaverous streets of Rwanda

I hunted a husband. Always drunk arrived the house and it beat me
I escaped himr from the home where the East of the sun stopped flowing
I am happy in the company of the street of the mice.
No there is, nor I believe in the mysteries of the ministries of the Angolan women's promotions
The associations of human rights cannot be worth me
They are as the imported soap operas, we see them and we found them interesting
They gave me the freedom, they removed me the University

I am to destroy my sadness. Forgotten, abandoned, as if it didn't exist
Of facto I don't exist, because my Angola sank
In the oilfields
They donate my backs, I am a long time in the same position
of the government. Stooping without a string oilfield
Without stirrups to arise, to change the situation
If I try to rest, they alert me that I am the to idle
I stop, I get up. I don't know who tied the solar spotlights
They seem a big flashlight. The light illuminates the cups of the trees
No longer they are green. She approaches, she will give me bath.

I raise at cost (the hunger) the head well for the high and I see my breasts in the mountains
Some birds fly for me, and they greet me
Suddenly without knowing reason, scream: Ó Nzambi! Ó Nzambi!
The sunbathing is very hot
I am to perspire, in the scarce clothes to cover me
Awake of my pleasure. He is close, I capture his voice
He already arrived again, the colonization. His glance covets me the breasts. I guess that will say:
Black "Ó, are the to idle a lot!”
I bow and I drag the fruits of the coffee plants
With the wood tool, I crawl
The others are to prepare the sacks to sack
I don't know when the liberation of this perspiration comes
She will arrive! The independence arrived!
Finally free… in the streets of the bitterness, without robe
To sell my corporal misfortune to any one

He trained the heap of the tumult of the crowd
I asked them: did the Salomon come?
They answered: it is strengthened in the prison of the chameleon
Of our teachers of constitutional right
I saw him, the child's garbage that fed her
In the shallow board that it floated, no ratified in the book of the hunger
Of the pages of the records Guinness. I dared to lament:
Glorious, elementary electoral suffering
Don't sleep chosen, abandon the beds

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