Tuesday, March 18, 2008

What Causes Gaggin In Morning

Goodbye (reflections of an old travel)


jumping from one thought to another.

Follow the sad melody of a voice that fades with time.

The fear of not arriving until tomorrow, the fear of death that is gripping the limbs,

death that touches us only in that in that exact space separates you and me,

the death of the heart, the spirit

death and resurrection for ever and ever.

God, you send a messenger, which brings with it

of embroidered fabrics for a story, a story that starts elsewhere, a memory that can not be forgotten.

Loose limbs in the sea,

an entire ocean to separate myself from what I hold in my heart,

the distance to return to a time where the warriors danced on earth,

sustained by his blood, divine beings flew away like an arrow in the sky ....

arch our hands are stained with the blood to paint a smile and wash our hands, so that's all

past.

back to you and I wait,

perhaps on a beach will be a meeting, perhaps in a cave,

already in the dream and thought ... every day and every night.

I wait for you to come and join me for the souls in a single breath, to relive the past in our bodies.

Your magic touch on the skin

your hair wind and sun on your back

A whisper

A caress

A moment of our lives.

back to you as naked as the child sacred.

come back full of words and gestures,

under your breasts to grow stronger as the wind and quick as lightning.

And when you feed them, I have grown with my breasts,

bread for your mouth,

My legs your streets

My uterus your secrets

My mouth your memory.

will rest inside a flower at the sound of the caves,

singing of the earth.

Urla Urla this land

your skin moist for a kiss ...

Your squares packed with crowds,

local bar full of light and voices,

while I wait for my coffee and talk about something that I've ever seen.

A twinge you feel when ... but I must leave, take it or leave

.

And I always leave for another try and again and again, until the wheel turns and runs toward the bottom of the cart.

Who leaves the old road to the new ... will have his reasons.

know what ... let into the houses of his city, into the hearts of lovers and mothers.

not know what that is ... to me it's okay.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

What Are Raw Diamonds

Diversity of Being The Unbearable

My desire to Africa started long time ago, maybe eight years ago, moment by moment, not more, because of that first love that you never forget. Although sometimes I think it was even earlier than that, as if he had experienced before, like a pulse-memory irrational. Persecuting them. Until now, that is until, for a series of events and "coincidences" I decided to come to Africa to live in this!

Why? Everyone asks me.

For Love ... but that's another story.

hours and then I find myself faced with a choice of life that takes shape in the days that follow one another in disbelief myself in front of the force that is assuming that instead of the infinite possible ways I could go and that ... and I did not take.

But there is a thought that hammers my head every day.

My false memory annihilates me. Crowded corner of the brain where thoughts and memories and ideas and backgrounds- imaginative turns out to be completely ineffective in front of the daily reality for the simple reason of being the result of a projection and not a living.

The double-edged weapon of unknown cause that cuts off the membrane that separates a sentitodire a personal recollection.

Someone told me that "the knowledge only becomes wisdom when it becomes personal experience," and now I feel like throwing away all the stories, dialogues, reports that I've been made in ' this period of time. I feel like throwing them behind me, as for luck, symbolizing the advance compelling a new world, my world.

and take a look at this New World I wipe my feet on the streets of Maputo with lightness, as if trying not to leave no footprint on the land of red dirt and the sidewalks almost non-existent ... relics of a past colonial, so close and sad.

And how do you go from one of the seven most developed countries in the world to one that is not among the final 10? How do you make that big a jump without breaking your neck??

know how many numbers go from 7 to 157?? No ... not 150.

There are millions.

million.

Millions of souls.

And there are millions of souls who look at you with suspicion and / or curiosity while taking a walk in their streets, including their homes, getting your feet up to ankles ...

Why whites here can only get in new cars and on foot walking in the area of \u200b\u200bthe museum, away from the drains open. Away from home caged behind thick iron bars and double houses to escape the prison ladrĂ£o .

And you know what to make of here ladroes? Burn them alive! My Holy God! Put them in an old tire and so on ... a life less, a little like the time of the Inquisition but with less theology behind, I think.

And my amazement grows in knowing that the inquiries conducted in elementary-age children reveal that they too are in complete agreement: "We need their own justice because the police does not do it." And then burn 'em away these thieves of hens, DVD, television, bread, rice and cried ...

But who would have thought so quiet that people could express such cruelty?

And then I I ask WHY?

But I find no answer.

Yes, because I'm sick of sociological and historical analysis or psycho-sociological or historical and psychological.

There is something rotten in humanity anywhere in the world you are, or what the reason.

My day starts at 8 o'clock in the morning when I wake up quietly after a night of love, I'm preparing, loading the computer and go back to work.

I leave the green door leaving behind houses as white as snow, nestled in a row and quiet. Machines of € 25 000 are parked waiting for someone to put in motion to go passeggio.Un dog barks every time step, a cocker hysterical and bored. The guard kindly opened my door and I to fly away to my day.

through the street and a slight drizzle wet clothes, I stop and wait for the first chapa that goes and puts the yellow arrow, staggering like a drunk too much oil that spits out black smoke as a lung cancer . The chapa fffffrena loudly and croic croic stops opened the door of purgatory.

All inside the firm, attached back to back, belly to belly, stuck together by a common destiny.

Come on.

The chapa coughing, moaning and limping again, like every day, every month, every year until the collapse.

Yet it is all so human in there.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Would Flea Fogger Kill Lice

Fire and flames in Maputo!

few weeks ago, the suffocating reality of contradiction hanging by a thread in which I move is revealed in its most hideous dress: urban violence.
Behind the faces of sincere astonishment and rage choked citizens of Maputo on the brink of disaster gathered in the streets to protest against the increase of public transport, chapa, creaky private vans, the main means of long distance transportation.
tires burned, barred roads, phrases shouted, lynchings, shootings, deaths and injuries. The people no aguenta , can not do it and explodes in the face of a government full of good words and undecided whether to respond to the people or carriers. Meanwhile, the police fired, arrested and beaten with what ever method of summary justice of the visitors there. No matter if you have really done something wrong, the protest is never welcome anywhere, and as always the answer to violence is always and only an even greater violence. To terrorize, to soothe the soul, as quickly as possible to plug the hole opened in the eyes of those who helplessly for a new episode of injustice and abject poverty.
Because it is survival and a minimum wage too close to zero to allow people to cope with a shipping price doubled overnight. Here among the poor is not indifferent to the penny falls from our purse to distraction.
The protest continued for days, the school Armando Guebuza (current president of the country) is attacked as a sign of refusal to the government, who will lose are the children who study there. Growing robberies. The machines are made with stones in the street. No one leaves. People are being beaten. Parents are afraid for their children they must go back to school. The streets are quiet, the night falls during the day.
The night is the fear that a second outbreak Nairobi, Kinshasa, Kigali, Freetown, Luanda, Bujumbura ...
The night is sure to be immune ...
The night is the victory of the violence on itself.