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.

sábado, 8 de junho de 2013

He seems, today, yesterday, but eight years already became exhausted

When it leafs them of the trees fall, the trees die once a year and they resuscitate her intense green of the life and the flowers are painted, immortalized in the painting humans' pictures, but in their immortal works. Us no, as we don't have leaves for they fall and later if they renew, we died, we fell and we never again got up, in any hole abandoned ourselves. 
And Ulysses in the eternity of the sea navigates without Penelope to find. The sound of a lute is heard in the distance, it seems the sea to calm, and of Penelope always to fall in love.  
In the earth lied down, buried, of the humans moved away, and no longer remembered, of so much suffering, tortured. 
So many dreams that I had in vain, wanted to accomplish them but they sent me for the face, always in the fear of the: will they shoot me? 
I see a beautiful landscape, the sea loaded of light illuminating the beach, and in her a melodious voice in the sands kept, five hundred, six hundred, and seven hundred years later. And the voice sings, it transplants the dances and you sing them of the Medium Age. It is true yes; any one of us is a machine of the time. It is suddenly a musical procession was done present, and the beauty of the Medium Age was reborn, touching. Yes, the most wonderful sounds are of that time, so much beauty awaiting the discovery. The Holy Grail is the music of the Medium Age. 
And in the distance in earth, I see a loaded field, fence of jasmines, the Jasmine of poets attract, without him poets would not exist. A stream is made present, absentee, the green is not left commands the life, and we are not green for that lost her. And where there is no green, there is north. 
Everything is born and he dies us also, but while alive we should show the road of the eternity, of the solemnity of the love. But there are always the ones that are considered immortal; those are the misfortune of our lives.  
To live is an ephemera dance, which we wanted that it never again ends. To live is to resist, in the bows of the love to succumb. 

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