That fear under the skin of empty bellies and repus of violences! I sweated, hatched by nonincredible of the life, confined in a bad luck nourishes by the thunders of the catastrophes of the dogs of men who dominate this world. Thus forget which I perhaps and perhaps that it will be able to me to be forced to like the life.
On the other side of the scale of the nonendogenous failures of the occultists of on our premises, I suffered not to see the overcome world, destroyed which delivered to us of the beings finally died. I am called the crossroads. As much to say to you that I very lost but gained it is delirious to be with nobody, owe the obligation to survive. The hen of aïeux did not know to keep its plantation, the hen of aïeux heated the belly of the traitor who was to nourish it. And soon, under the sun of these negros always in honourable tears, it snowed hail of famine economic to know more in which placing the cold tears well. I lost my mission, others stole me my reason to walk on the ground. And to like it. It is like this day, when the flashes traced a way nourishes fire, obligatory in the search of happiness. My father burst me the eyes, so that never again my spirit was repaisse of this divine gift, of this basket which would have enabled me to enjoy another existence. Blind man and without guide, somebody carries out my life in boat. It is like that, always of the wizards around the oldest cradle of humanity and never a black hand to bandage by this knowledge. I tracked more than of reason the memories of innate knowledge, but there too rather early, I discovered amnesia. It is true that it is always like that. The African dies only of natural death, then I affirm that the others emptied my garden, stole my ground, stripped me pride to go, soiled me remainders of their digestions, relegated me to the dark quite obscure row of surviving. Well in spite of me.
Somebody thought that of my fingers my intimacy was revealed. Someone else passed by again his shirts sure that Africa is guilty. Others said to me that never the ewe ressuscite knife. Me I cry so much I laugh because all is lost and dispersed. Tomorrow when the suns foutront our thick skins, somebody says that the White stole all, and that soon the poor one will have to refund. Is this the White which burst me the eyes? I stumble so much I runs on clouds which have says to me of the hopes. It is so beautiful a blues heart, a heart full with blues and dignity. However, every day, that bastille. I include/understand. I understand that scission was born chaos, your abyss, my misfortune. It appears that to be strong is to be right. Then, I hold my head to hear the continuation of my life because nothing never pushed nothing. It was said that the wise ones transmitted and that the young people cursed because the elder ones have betrays. Scissions. What sings the poets, which says the insane ones, which cries the kids, and how the prophets encanaillent themselves. I said, as thought the past formerly, than the guigne is in shame, and shame is the honor of valorous, hilarious in the suffering, nauseous in its forfeiture. I said, as thundered formerly the liars, toothless by too many falls, than the storm betrayed me parce in front of this father. I understood that I walk on as those which know and not those which included/understood. Because you cannot include/understand the life and living being! It is true that much dies in total failure…
The mercury thighs diablement had to be quartered to shit us a tomb of similar shit continuous. It is of the opinions on the blackness of the Gods, but we have all obscure intimacies.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Nadège Ango-Obiang.
Published on e-Stories.org on 08/07/2008.